


The Gold to My Silver

by greyvvardenfell



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (is there a better way to word that? it spans the whole game is what I'm saying), Canon Compliant, F/M, Full game retelling, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rated for language and violence and sexual content, Retelling, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-11-05 03:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyvvardenfell/pseuds/greyvvardenfell
Summary: When Reyja Brosca set out from Orzammar in the company of the Grey Wardens, she left behind every scrap of the life she had known and felt trapped inside herself by her own insecurities. In less than two years, she will become the Hero of Ferelden, and with the help of her companions, especially the elven assassin Zevran, she will also remake herself into the person she's always wanted to be.





	1. Orzammar

Reyja Brosca shifted the heavy bucket to her other hand and leaned against the door of her family’s dilapidated home, swinging it open. Kalah snored loudly inside, slumped over her bottle at the table, and didn’t react to her youngest daughter’s entrance. Reyja sighed and set the bucket down with a thump, sloshing water onto the packed earth floor. _Drunk again._

A harsh laugh, a man’s, startled her. “I can’t keep gambling on you forever, precious.” She recognized the unfriendly tone and took a cautious step towards the back bedroom, eyes narrowed.

“Beraht, please.” That was Rica’s voice, nervous. Reyja squared her shoulders and strode into the room without another moment’s hesitation. As much as she feared him, Beraht would not harm her sister, not while she was there.

“Fancy seeing you here, boss,” she said as she pushed past the curtain in the bedroom doorway. “Isn’t it a little early for a social call?”

He spat at her feet. “Pah, there’s nothing social about this. It’s just business.”

“Care to take it up with me, then, and leave my sister out of it?”

“It’s your sister’s business,” he growled, squinting at her. “She’s on loose sand with me. You will be too, with that lip.”

“No lip,” said Reyja passively. “Just wondering why you’re here, that’s all.”

“I own you, brand. Your house is my house, if you could even call it that. And your family—” his lips curled in a rough approximation of a smile, “— is my family.”

Rica spoke up again, keeping her arms wrapped protectively around herself and her eyes down. “Please, Beraht, I don’t want to do this in front of my sister.”

He laughed. “Why not? She knows the slope of the land. Don’t you?”

Reyja swallowed. This could be dangerous territory. “Right,” she said carefully. “We do what you say, and everything’s glimmering gold. And when we're done,” she added, “You'll let us go.”

Her father, a dwarf she knew only as Ren, had left them when she was very young, abandoning her mother, Rica, and Reyja herself to toil in the slums or risk complete destitution. Kalah had only recently shared what she knew of her past lover’s fate in one of her drunken stupors, slurring an accusatory tale of his departure to the surface. _The surface._ Reyja had always wondered what it would be like away from the choking fumes and constant struggles of her home. Rica, though they were close, didn’t share her curiosity. Ren was not her father, and she had never wanted to leave the city entirely, just to escape Dust Town. But Reyja couldn’t let go of the allure of freedom. If her father’s actions were any measure, getting to the surface was worth risking everything, despite outlandish rumors of falling up into the sky or being blinded by the sun. Working for Arno Beraht’s Carta was the quickest way out, though not the safest or most palatable to dwarves with morals. But sacrifices had to be made, for the good of the family, and Reyja was willing to bear the burden of securing their future whether they stayed in Orzammar or not. Since the crackdown on smuggling the year before, though, her efforts alone hadn’t been enough to keep them fed and housed, and Rica had joined the Carta as well, though in a very different capacity than her sister.

Beraht bared his teeth in another grin. “Got that right. You should listen to her, Rica. She knows the deal you made: whatever it takes. So she keeps her head down and does whatever jobs I don’t want to dirty my fists with. It’s because of her that I keep shelling out the coin to get you all prettied up, and you’re wasting it.”

“Beraht, I —”

“Shut your painted mouth, whore!” he roared, losing his temper and striking her across the face with the flat of his hand. “I’m done hearing your excuses. The deal was simple, easy enough for you casteless to understand. I thought I paid for you to learn your letters so you could impress the nobility with your smarts, but I see that that was wasted money too.”

Reyja rushed to her sister’s side, burning with anger. Rica bit her lip, stifling tears of fear and pain as her cheek, the one unmarked by a casteless brand, began to turn red from the slap. But there was nothing they could do except wait for Beraht’s tantrum to end. He owned them. They owed him everything.

“I’ll give you one more chance, Rica,” the carta boss hissed, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look him in the eye. “If you don’t find some noble to fuck you until you have a bellyful of his brat, you’re done. You have a week. I want to be moving my things to the Diamond Quarter nine months from then so filthy nugs like you can finally scramble around and call me ‘my lord’ like I deserve.”

“We’ll keep our end of the deal,” said Reyja quietly, her face still afire with rage and now with embarrassment. She hated being reminded of her sister’s new line of work, even if it was the only thing keeping them off the streets.

Beraht snapped his head away from Rica to survey her. “You’re damn right you will. You don’t have anywhere else to turn, and if you really want out of here, you won’t disappoint me again.” He dropped his hand from Rica’s face and she stumbled back. “Now, Reyja,” he said, cracking his knuckles. She resisted the urge to edge away from him. “I have work for you too. Unless you’d rather switch with your sister?”

Reyja clenched her jaw. She wouldn’t become a noble hunter if it was the last job in Orzammar, and she knew Beraht knew it. The idea of bearing a child, even a noble one, repulsed her: swelling like a bloated corpse stuck in a river’s eddy, only to have the parasite push its way out of a most sensitive area… Reyja suppressed a shudder. It was disgusting enough to imagine that as Rica’s fate. “That won’t be necessary,” she said stiffly. “What do you have for me?”

“Usual stuff for hired muscle. Leske should be outside waiting for you by now. I told him to meet you here. Get out there and ask him about it. And don’t fuck it up: you’re standing in shit just as deep as your sister is.” Beraht scowled and shifted his heavy body towards the door. “We’re done here. I’ve had about as much of the stink of Dust Town as I can take for one day.”

Reyja watched him go. She heard him snort and mutter something about useless casteless as he stalked past her mother, then the door slammed. In a slow rush, she let out the breath she didn’t realize she'd been holding. Rica sat slowly on the low bed they shared and wrapped her arms around herself again. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said softly as Reyja joined her.

“Don’t be. I’m just glad I got back in time. Who knows what else he would have done to you?”

Rica grimaced. “He wouldn’t risk hurting the merchandise.”

“I don’t know how you can be sure of that. He’s a monster.” Reyja furrowed her brow. “Is your cheek okay?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Rica—”

“Really, I’m good. I promise.”

Reyja frowned. Something still didn’t feel right. “You know you don’t have to hide anything from me, right?”

Her sister smiled, genuinely. “I know. And I’m not. I’ve always tried, though. At least I’ve kept you from having to buy your future with what’s between your legs.”

“I still don't think it’s okay for you to do it instead.”

“That’s the choice I made, though, isn’t it? We needed the money. Could you really see me doing what you do? My father wasn’t like yours, and Mother certainly didn’t give me any muscle.”

Reyja looked down at her hands, broad and callused from swinging her sword in Beraht’s service. “I guess not.”

Rica sighed. “There is a reason Beraht came here, though. I should have told you he might. He’s been… warning me, ever since two of his other girls found patrons at Lord Harrowmont’s reception a few weeks ago. They’ve been getting gifts already. Lord Rousten gave Elyse a surface-silk gown just yesterday, and she’s not even pregnant yet. Beraht’s getting impatient with me.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to push you around.”

“We owe him, Rey. It kind of does.”

Reyja shook her head. “No. Whatever he may have promised to do for us, he can’t just come in here and knock you around like that. Next time, he’ll have to go through me.”

“Don’t. Please don’t. We can’t risk making him mad again. Just do as he says. We’ll be away from him soon.”

“How do you figure? He’s done a good fucking job of making sure we don’t have anywhere else to go, hasn’t he?” Reyja stood up suddenly, her fists clenching as the fury she'd felt when Beraht struck Rica rose again. “Either you have to get pregnant or I have to stand up to him. I’m not going to let him do that again.”

Rica caught her wrist to keep her sister from storming off. “That won’t do any good and you know it. Unless you find some way to save us all from the darkspawn and become a Paragon, we’re on Beraht’s leash for at least a little while longer.”

Reyja sank down to the bed again, her anger dissipating as quickly as it had come. “I just wish we didn’t have to kiss his ass all the time. It’s not fair that he gets to treat us like shit.”

“No, it’s not. But that’s how it is. His money gives him power, and, Ancestors, he played it smart. You know, I was just talking to Natia the other day, and she was telling me about how he got, and stayed, so rich. Don’t ask me how she found out, but I guess he’s still getting these shipments of silks and wines and furs and all these other surface goods because he has family up there. He can keep smuggling lyrium and weapons to them and no one’s the wiser.”

“So it was luck that got him where he is,” Reyja grumbled. “Luck and connections. He’s nothing special.”

“I guess you could say that. But whatever got him there, he’s there now.” Rica sighed again and pulled her sister into a hug.

“Beraht expects too much from you,” said Reyja, breaking the embrace after a few moments. “It's only been a year since you joined up.”

“You know how desperate the nobles are for children,” Rica replied, standing and crossing the room to the small, dusty mirror hanging above the dresser all three Brosca women shared. “They can barely field enough soldiers to hold the darkspawn back.”

“So? Why don't they let casteless fight, then, if they're so shorthanded?”

Rica pulled her long red hair into a ponytail at the back of her head, surveying her reflection, then let it fall. “You don’t understand. It's not just about having warm bodies in the Deep Roads, it's about maintaining bloodlines. If I could give one of them a son, the whole house would celebrate, and we’d be raised up to noble caste to join their family.” She picked up a set of old hair pins.

“You still shouldn’t have to do it,” muttered Reyja, feeling stubborn. “There has to be something else Beraht would let you do instead.”

“Look, I know how you feel about children, but I can do this. Beraht’s betting on it. It’s why he paid for my clothes, my voice lessons, for me to learn to read. He’s given me too much to have me quit now, but he wants in on the reward, too.”

“Yeah, I know. He’ll pretend he’s part of the family and get raised up with us.”

“It’s only fair that I do whatever I can to repay his investment in me.”

“Investment?” Reyja scowled. “That makes him sound almost generous. He’s just fattening you up like a nug before market.”

“Then I’ll fetch a better price, won’t I?” Rica put her hair up again, twisting and pinning it into a tightly rolled bun, a style the nobility currently favored. She pulled a few strands from her temples to frame her face and reached for her small cosmetics case. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Let me do my job and you can do yours.”

Reyja looked away, her argument dying on her tongue. Rica was right. There was nothing they could do but carry on as they were and hope Beraht would keep his word. Her sister was very beautiful: surely she would catch someone’s eye soon. A week could be a long time, and she seemed to be pulling out all the stops to attract a nobleman today.

“What’s with the lipstick?” Reyja asked as Rica slicked the bright red paste onto her lips. “That’s new, isn’t it?”

Rica eyed her in the mirror. “Yes. It was a gift.”

“From who?” Reyja’s voice hardened, suspicious.

Rica smiled and Reyja could have sworn she blushed under her layers of face powder. “Look, I didn’t want to tell you because I’m not sure yet, but let’s just say I haven’t been shirking my responsibilities as much as Beraht thinks.”

“Does that mean you found someone?”

She giggled and turned around again. “Maybe. Like I said, I’m not sure yet. But he certainly seems… promising.”

“Why didn’t you tell Beraht then?”

The smile fell away from Rica’s face. “Don’t say anything. Please. I might be wrong about him. It just seems so crazy that someone in his position might want to be with someone like me, I need to be really sure before Beraht finds out.”

“What do you mean, ‘someone in his position?’ Isn’t he a noble?”

“Well, yes. But he’s not just a noble, he’s… a very important one. One of the most important men in Orzammar.” The distant chime of the city’s huge water clock struck the hour. Rica swore and faced the mirror again. “Ugh, Beraht’s going to make me late! I said I’d meet Bh— I said I’d meet _him_ at nine chimes, and I still have to get dressed! You’d better go find Leske. He’s probably wondering where you are. Don’t keep him, or Beraht, waiting, and please don’t say anything about this.”

Reyja rose as Rica began to rummage through the dresser drawers in search of an outfit. “I won’t, I promise,” she said. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

Rica flashed a dazzling smile made all the whiter by her red lipstick. Even the brand on her cheek seemed dull in comparison. “Thanks, little sister. Now go! Time is rusting!”

Reyja couldn’t help but return the grin. She crossed the room quickly and pulled back the door curtain, but a final thought flitted across her mind, stopping her. “Just tell me: does he seem like a good man?”

Her sister paused with a shimmering silken blouse in her hand. “He treats me like a lady, not just someone to tumble and forget,” she answered quietly, her eyes distant.

“Good,” said Reyja with a short nod. She didn’t know why she asked: it wouldn't have mattered. The city was full of foul-tempered men like Beraht, who hid their cruelty in honeyed words and vows they never intended to keep. Maybe Rica had managed to find a good one in the rabble, but even if she hadn’t, Beraht would ensure she was trapped with him, just as he had trapped all the casteless in his employ under his net of debt, promises, and fear. It turned Reyja’s stomach, but she was caught like all the rest.

Sighing and resigning herself to another day, Reyja grabbed her greatsword, an old, rusted iron blade taller than she was, from its hook on the wall and slung it over her back as she passed. She didn’t often get to the point in her intimidations where she had to use it as a weapon these days, but the sight of a hilt longer than her forearm spiking up over the top of her head aided in any situation in which she had to be threatening. She didn’t mind that part of her job so much, anyway. Being useful was being useful, even if it was for Beraht’s benefit.

She paused beside the bucket she had brought in for the day’s use and knelt over it, splashing her face and drying off with a ratty scrap of fabric they kept nearby. With a final glance at her mother’s unconscious form, still snoring loudly at the table and apparently undisturbed by Beraht’s outburst, Reyja pushed out the door and onto the Dust Town street.


	2. Orzammar

Leske was indeed waiting outside, flipping a dagger and eyeing a casteless woman hurrying down the street away from him. Reyja took a deep breath and tried to let go of the feelings the morning’s events had stirred up: they were a liability working this job, living this life, and she had struggled when she was first recruited to put them aside. But her job was to hurt people, and if she didn’t, her whole family would pay the price. She learned to close herself off, to hide under masks of cynicism, anger, sarcastic detachment. It worked, to an extent, but ate her up inside nevertheless.

“About sodding time,” remarked Leske, pushing himself off the stone wall as he saw her emerge. “Beraht left ages ago. I was starting to think I’d have to bust in and get an eyeful of that spicy sister of yours myself.”

She’d been paired with Leske five years ago, purely by chance, when she was newly enlisted in the Carta. He was kind to her, and funny, and Reyja enjoyed his company immensely. He made being under Beraht’s yoke bearable, even if he was more than a little too interested in Rica.

“Haven’t I told you never to talk about her like that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, yeah. Doesn’t change what she does to me, though.”

Reyja scoffed. “You just like Rica because she couldn’t break you in half with one hand.”

“I won’t deny that,” he said, taking in both her massive greatsword and the way her bare arms bulged with muscle as she folded them across her chest, the intricate blue tattoos on her forearm and shoulder rippling with her motion. “You just get bigger every day, don’t you?”

“That was rude.” Reyja didn’t deny it, though. She had been working herself harder than usual lately, spending most of her time when she wasn’t on a job for Beraht at the punching bag she had made out of a set of old leathers. “You’d be sweeping the streets if you didn’t have me watching your stupid back.”

He sighed dramatically. “And there it is. You’re just jealous because you want the majesty of Leske for yourself.”

Reyja shot a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “Ha, right. That’s it, exactly.” His easy-going teasing struck such a balance between genuine interest and mere banter that it confused her: no one had ever flirted with her before and meant it. She wasn’t opposed to his affection, if that’s what it was, but couldn’t tell if he meant it either, having nothing to compare it to. Regardless, opening herself up to a relationship like that would mean revealing to another person that she had emotions, feelings… it was unthinkable. Lonely and protected, she had decided long ago, was better than exposed and exploited. Still, she couldn’t deny that she sometimes let her mind wander, trying to imagine what her life would be like if she could let her guard down, allow someone like Leske in, even take him to bed. Even the thought of it made her blush and retreat from the idea quickly. Sex in Dust Town was like currency, bearing a noble’s child the simplest way for a casteless woman to get out of the slums, and that Reyja had not yet partaken marked her as an anomaly. She’d heard rumors circulating that she wasn’t interested in men, or in anyone at all, but to have others assume that was easier than admitting that she feared her own vulnerability so deeply, she couldn’t bear to let anyone that close. Some sought escape from their difficulties at lovers’ hands, she knew, but separating the impassioned exposure of sex from the connection formed between the participants seemed impossible, and as one was out of the question, so was the other. She tried not to dwell on it, burying any desires she felt under jokes or anger like every other unwanted feeling. But every day it got harder to ignore the idea that she would always be alone, forever pounding fruitlessly against the inside of the armor she had constructed though she knew no one could hear her.

“Well,” said Leske, snapping Reyja out of her reverie. “As much as I’d love to just stand around today, we have work to do.”

“Aww, and here I thought the job was just to make fun of you.”

“Pfft, like you’d need Beraht to give you permission for that.”

“Shut up.”

“Not likely.”

Reyja chuckled. “So what are we actually doing?”

“Search-and-discipline.” Leske shrugged. “Boss says some surfacer has been holding out on him.”

“He’s sending us topside?”

“Ha, you wish. You know he’d never do that. Duster came down here last night and set himself up at Tapsters. Apparently he thought Beraht wouldn’t notice, just like he wouldn’t notice that his product was going missing with no sign of the coin.” He shook his head in mock despair. “Stupid fucker.”

“He’s stealing from Beraht? I like him already,” said Reyja, rolling her shoulders and stretching her neck. “Got anything else on him?”

“Just a name: Oskias. He’s probably still at Tapsters, or at least someone there can point us at him.”

“What are we supposed to do with him, if he’s selling on the surface?”

“Beraht just said find him and see what goods he was holding back. Shouldn’t be too hard, especially not if we kill him first.”

“What?” Reyja looked sidelong at her partner, frowning. “I don’t think it’s right to just kill this guy. Maybe he hasn’t even done anything and Beraht’s being paranoid.”

“We wouldn’t _just_ be killing him. We’ll take back everything he stole _and_ kill him. Sounds like a fun morning to me.”

Within the last few months, Leske had gotten crueler, more bloodthirsty, more eager to slaughter their targets than rough them up. Nothing at all like the man she had once called her best friend. “Let’s at least find out what he’s done before we make a scene,” cautioned Reyja. “And anyway, Beraht deserves it, if this Oskias is fleecing him.”

“You know he’ll have your head on a platter if he hears you saying that.”

Reyja gave a noncommittal grunt. “Let him try.” She let some of her anger towards the Carta boss roll over her. “Do you know what he did to Rica this morning?”

“If he’s been at my girl —”

“She’s not yours, Leske. Don’t make me say it again.”

“Not yet, maybe,” he grumbled. Reyja sighed to herself. “What did he do?”

“Slapped her across the damn face, is what he did,” said Reyja as she set off down the narrow Dust Town street. They could talk as they made their way uptown: they’d delayed enough as it was.

“What? Why?”

Reyja bit her lip. Rica didn't deserve to have everyone know her private business, even Leske. “She made him mad, I guess. Who knows why Beraht does anything?” she offered, after a hesitation a beat too long.

If Leske noticed her pause, he didn’t mention it. “She alright?”

“Yeah, she said she was. Looked like it hurt though. I would have slapped him back if she hadn’t stopped me.”

“That would've been something to see! I’m sure you’ll get your chance to beat the shit out of him someday, Rey.”

“Yeah, right. And someday you’ll be a Paragon.”

“Excuse you! I could be the Paragon of anything. Talent. Manliness. Sexual prowess.”

“Getting your ass handed to you on a regular basis,” added Reyja. “They only give you Paragon status for things that actually happen.”

Leske ignored her. “The Assembly will recognize my greatness any day now,” he said, puffing out his chest and strutting ahead of her down the street, flexing his arms comically.

Reyja laughed and rolled her eyes, but his words held bitterness in their depths. It was only since Jarvia, Beraht’s new right hand, had been raised out of the ranks of casteless thugs that Leske had lost some of the friendliness that made her like him in the first place. Reyja suspected that he resented being passed over for the promotion, having been a loyal, or relatively so, member of the Carta since he was a child. She couldn’t blame him for that, really, but she still missed the Leske she had known. Flashes of that man came less and less often as Jarvia’s influence in the Carta increased, and Reyja clenched her jaw at the thought that they might soon disappear altogether, leaving her friend almost unrecognizable.

They continued wending through Dust Town, ducking into narrow alleyways and between crumbling stone houses, nodding to the people they recognized and glaring at the ones they did not: newcomers were rare in the slums and not to be trusted. Slowly, the ground beneath their feet began to slope upward, ascending towards the stone archway marking the farthest casteless dwarves usually traveled. Though everyone in Orzammar was free to visit the Commons in theory, the upper castes actively tried to dissuade the dregs of their society from convening there, and had posted a pair of guards at the boundary for “safety.” No casteless bought that excuse, but few had any reason to brave the angry mutterings and slurs of the Commons anyway. Only the Carta spent any appreciable amount of time there, and only then on errands for Beraht.

The men stationed at the official border left them alone, pegging them as Carta right away. Beraht’s people were never stopped, though Reyja heard one of the guardsmen snort derisively and mutter something to his companion that made them both laugh. She lowered her head and clenched her fists, pushing in front of Leske to lead the way across the stone square towards Tapsters.

The Commons were crowded with trade stalls and dwarves haggling for goods and running errands. Even nobles occasionally ventured out of the Diamond Quarter on special market days, though it was rare to see anyone higher than smith caste any other time. Tapsters, the city’s biggest and most well-known tavern, rose over the wide streets, flanked by large pipes that delivered streams of ever-present Orzammar lava into the bubbling lake of it far below. Intricate blocky swirls and corners, decidedly dwarven, covered the facade of the building and large stone signs carved with stylized tankards stood against each of its outward faces.

As soon as the two of them descended into the semicircular interior of the building, the barkeep grunted in disgust and stepped out from behind the counter. “No casteless,” he spat, pointing at the door.

Leske gave a harsh laugh. “You new here, buddy?”

The man huffed, his black beard hanging limply over his yellowing teeth. “Of course not, I—”

Reyja cut him off, taking another few paces forward and raising her arm. “Look closer before you mess with us, then.” Beraht’s colors, a fabric token woven of rust red and yellow, stood out starkly against her skin.

He narrowed his eyes. “Who the dust do you think you… oh.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Must be the lighting in here… I didn’t realize you were one of his. I-I’m not lookin’ for any trouble, you know.”

“You found it anyway,” Leske muttered into Reyja’s ear. She ignored him.

“Just tell me where Oskias is,” she said, glancing around the tavern. This early, it wasn’t full. The smattering of patrons were mainly visitors taking breakfast before venturing out into the city.

The innkeeper let out a slow breath. “That what this is about? I knew he'd be bad news soon’s I saw him. You lot are fast: he only got in last night,” he grumbled, scanning the sparse crowd. “There’s your man, right over there.” He pointed to a nervous-looking dwarf sitting at a back table, alone. “What’s he done?”

Reyja and Leske exchanged a glance. “You really want to make that your business?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at the innkeeper. “Didn’t you say you ‘weren’t looking for any trouble’ just now?”

“Right,” he said, moving back behind the bar. “Well, ah, you... do what you have to. Just, um, try to keep it neat. I’m still paying for this space.” He took out a cloth and began wiping down the counter, pointedly ignoring them. Leske and Reyja looked at each other again and Leske shrugged, then gestured with his head towards Oskias’s table.

They moved across the tavern in silence, approaching Oskias from behind. The man shifted in his seat anxiously nevertheless, glancing over his shoulder or towards the door between gulps from his tankard. Leske dropped into the empty chair beside him with a friendly smile that didn’t reach his eyes as Reyja slid around the table to sit across from him while he was distracted. Oskias startled at Leske’s sudden presence, and again at hers. “H-hey!” he stammered. “I was saving those seats!

Leske chuckled. “That’s real thoughtful of you, Oskias. Never too early for a drink, right?”

Oskias gave him a suspicious look. “How do you know my name?”

“We’ve been looking for you,” replied Leske, his grin widening.

“But—”

“Let’s just say we’ve got a mutual friend,” Reyja interjected, leaning across the table and keeping her voice low.

Oskias’s eyes widened in fear, and he nearly bolted from the table, only to be pulled back down into his seat with a thump by Leske, who wrapped his hand around the other man’s wrist with lightning-fast reflexes. “Nervous, are you, Oskias?” said Leske sleekly. “Why? Have you done something wrong?”

“N-n-no,” he said, unconvincingly. Reyja suppressed the urge to roll her eyes: maybe Leske would get his blood after all.

“Look, this is just a friendly inspection, courtesy of Beraht.” She fixed Oskias in her gaze. “If you did nothing wrong, then you’ve got nothing to fear, right?”

He nodded shakily. “I just want to make sure that nobody, um, does anything too hasty,” he said, flinching away from Leske. “I’ve always been loyal to Beraht, I swear. He’s been good to me and my family, and I kn-know how much I owe him.”

Reyja splayed her broad hands across the rough wooden table top, feigning nonchalance. “I believe you, sure,” she said. “We’re just going to make sure you didn’t, say, pocket any processed lyrium, or maybe gold, in your short stay here. Right, Leske?”

“That’s right.” Leske tightened his grip on Oskias’s arm. “Keep still and we’ll make this almost pleasant.”

Oskias shuddered as Leske drew his dagger and pointed it almost lazily at his throat, signaling to Reyja to begin searching the bags piled on the chair next to him. As she stood, Oskias cried, “W-wait! I do have some lyrium! It’s just ore, though, just ore!” He strained his neck back, trying to keep the tip of the blade in his line of sight.

Leske chuckled deep in his throat. “There, now, wasn’t that fun?” He flipped the dagger in his hand and replaced it in its sheath, but kept his grip on Oskias’s wrist tight. “Anything else you’d like to tell us?”

“I-I made a deal with one of the m-mining families,” Oskias stuttered. “A side deal. If it worked out, I was going to bring Beraht his cut, I swear! I’d be c-crazy not to.”

“Suicidal, one might say,” Leske murmured, cocking an eyebrow at Reyja.

She frowned. “How much ore did you take?”

“J-just a little!” said Oskias earnestly. “Maybe… twenty-five sovereigns worth?”

Reyja’s eyes widened, and Leske let out a strangled laugh. “Twenty-five sovereigns?” He repeated, stunned.

Oskias knitted his brows together, his short burst of confidence already fading. “W-well, m-most of that’s with my buyers on the surface. I just picked up a few nuggets down here…” he trailed off, his eyes flickering anxiously between the two of them. “S-s-say, I don’t suppose I could, well, give you a piece? Each of you? That’s a lot of coin, you know. And Beraht would never have to find out!”

Reyja lifted her chin and regarded their mark through narrowed eyes, thinking quickly. If what he said was true, just one piece of that lyrium could fetch a high enough price that she and her sister, maybe even Kalah, too, could hire onto a caravan. Rica wouldn’t have to whore herself out for Beraht’s benefit, and Reyja assumed it would be easy enough to find work as a guard or a soldier on the surface with her experience in the Carta. All she needed was the right buyer.

“Who do you sell to?” she asked quickly, shifting her gaze around the room to ensure they weren’t being overheard. Leske’s jaw dropped, but a glare from Reyja kept him quiet.

Relief flooded Oskias’s watery eyes. “S-surfacers! Mages up there, they, they use it for their spells, and smiths use it in enchanted weapons, and—”

Reyja held up her hand to stop his babbling. She would have to work fast, to make sure that Beraht wouldn’t get suspicious. “Give me all you have, and I’ll pretend you weren’t here.”

“A-all I have is two nuggets, but they’re yours if you let me out of here! That should be enough to get you out of this r-rat’s nest.”

Leske found his voice, startling Oskias into silence again. “Are you breathing smoke?” he hissed. “What the fuck are you thinking? Beraht’ll kill you if he catches you with his lyrium!”

“I’ll... sell it before we go back to him,” said Reyja, her mind racing.

“You think you can get out to the surface before he realizes you’re gone? You have to walk past his fucking shop to get there!” Leske snapped. He opened his mouth for another breath, but closed it suddenly, a new glint in his eyes. “Unless…”

“What?”

“Unless you find a merchant here who doesn’t work with Beraht. Tell you what: cut me in fifty-fifty and we’ll go to Olinda.”

“Since when do you want to leave Orzammar?”

“I don’t. I just want the money.”

Reyja frowned. “How do you know we can trust her?”

“She likes me, and she refuses to work with the old man. Who could be more trustworthy than that? But you need to decide. Now. If you hadn’t taken so long this morning, we’d’ve been better off, but…”

She didn’t have much of a choice. Leske was right: they had taken too long as it was, her conversation with Rica having eaten into their time. Beraht would already be wondering where they were, and there was no guarantee that one of the merchants in the camp outside Orzammar’s doors would even be willing to buy suspicious lyrium from a casteless with no questions asked. Reyja bit her lip. This might be the best opportunity she would have to get out of Dust Town and away from Beraht. She couldn’t afford to let it pass. “Deal. Let’s do it. Let him go,” she said quickly, before she changed her mind.

Oskias let out a shaky breath as Leske released his arm. He reached for the closest satchel, pulled out a paper-wrapped package the size of his fist and shoved it across the table towards Reyja. She grabbed it and hid it in her lap. “N-now what happens to me?” He asked, his eyes darting between the two of them again.

“As far as Beraht will know, you’re dead,” said Reyja shortly. “Got it?”

“Yes. Yes! I’ll go back to the surface right now. You’ll never see me here again!” Oskias scrambled to his feet, pushing his chair over in his haste to escape. As he scooped his bags into his arms, he stammered, “Thank you, thank you! You’re as kind as you are beautiful!” He started towards the door of the tavern, bobbing his head in short, grateful bows. “May the Ancestors bless your steps!” And he was gone.

Reyja couldn’t help but scoff at his praise. She was no beauty, especially compared to her sister, and she knew it. As proud as she was of her musculature, she was just as ashamed of the fat cushioning it. No matter how hard she worked at it, her stomach remained fleshy, her hips and thighs, while strong enough to kick in a duster’s door, still plump, embarrassing. Ugly. Her hands were too large and her gray-blue eyes too small. She kept her brown hair short, as it was so thick it became unruly if left to grow and she didn’t have the time or inclination to care for it. Her skin was pale, prone to blemishes, and scarred from her work. Under her blue casteless brand and other facial tattoos, her full cheeks were always flushed red. Her downturned lips and dark brows gave a severe, almost angry set to her round face, which she did nothing to temper. Years of prowling the streets of Dust Town, constantly looking over her shoulder for danger, had left her with a slight hunch. She could rarely stand to look at herself in her sister’s mirror. It was no wonder, she often told herself harshly, that she was still a virgin at 24, had never even been kissed. _Too broad to be pretty, too masculine. No one would ever choose you._ She snorted derisively and tucked the small parcel of lyrium under her arm.

Leske stared after Oskias, his eyes hard. “Was that smart, Rey? He’ll have to run right past Beraht’s shop to get out of here. If Beraht sees him, he’ll kill you. He’ll kill me. He’ll make you kill me, then yourself.”

She followed his gaze. “I just wish I could have left with him.”

“You’re not serious, are you? I figured you just wanted the money too. You could get yourself a new sword or something, I don’t know.”

“No,” said Reyja. “Don’t you see? Rica and I could get out of here. Not just out of Dust Town, but away from Orzammar altogether, without Beraht’s ‘help.’” She swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to tell you, but the reason Beraht hit her this morning is because she’s… struggling, to find a noble patron. She wouldn’t have to worry about that if we just left.” Her plan felt more solid with each passing moment.

Leske looked at her incredulously. “I… guess. But if you ask me, you’ve been hit in the head too many times.”

Reyja opened her mouth to retort, but he held up his hands to stop her, conceding defeat. “If you’re sure, we’d better go find Olinda. Her stall’s not too far from here, and she really does have a soft spot for me. Used to give me bread crusts when I was a kid. Come on, I promise she’ll give us a fair deal, and Beraht won’t hear about it.”

She nodded, and they slipped out of the tavern back into the Commons. The streets had gotten busier in the time they spent in Tapsters, but no one gave them a second glance, even with their brands. Leske pointed across the marketplace towards an older woman with long, graying brown hair piled haphazardly on top of her head, surrounded by secondhand clothing and housewares. Reyja kept her hand on the package of lyrium nuggets, wary of being jostled by the crowd as they made their way over to Olinda’s booth.

“Leske, you old scamp!” Olinda cried as they approached. She reached over the counter and took his face in both of her hands, kissing his forehead. “What’re you doing here? Trying to charm me out of another set of ribbons for your girl, eh?”

Leske shot her a winning smile. “Trying to talk you into being my girl, Olinda. You know my heart’s breaking for you.”

“Don’t you go saying that around my husband!” OIinda laughed brassily. “And who’s your friend?” she asked, raising an over-plucked eyebrow.

“Reyja. Nice to meet you.”

Olinda smiled. She was missing one of her bottom teeth. “You’re welcome to look around. I’ll slide on the mark-up since you’re with Leske, but I can’t give anything away for free.”

“Actually,” said Reyja, stepping closer and placing her parcel on the counter. Leske glanced around and leaned casually against the booth, shielding their transaction from passers-by. “We’ve got some lyrium to sell you.”

Olinda looked from the package to Reyja to Leske. “That’s… not what I was expecting to hear, I must admit. What have you been up to, Leske, that you would pick up lyrium?”

His lips twitched into a smirk. “What do you think?”

“I think…” Olinda trailed off, searching his face. “I think that’s probably something I should never know.”

Leske laughed and nudged Reyja’s shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you she’s a gem?”

“Oh, you.” Olinda waved a dismissive hand at him. “Now, how much do you have?” She started to unwrap the paper, but Reyja put her own hand over it, stopping her.

“First tell me how much per nugget.”

“Thirty silvers.”

Reyja’s heart sank and the cocky grin fell off of Leske’s face. “Only thirty?” he asked.

Olinda sighed. “I won’t lie to you, it’s less than it’s worth. But the market for it’s topside, and that won’t be easy for me to reach. Plus, finding a buyer who won’t ask where it came from will take me pretty far from Orzammar. The farther you get, the less people up there care how it got to them, just so long as they can buy it. For all that, I can’t afford more than thirty.”

Reyja frowned, weighing her options. She could take the lyrium to Beraht now, abandon the idea of escaping with the windfall coin she might have earned, pretend like she never even considered running away. That money wouldn’t last long, even less if Rica joined her. Still, thirty silver was thirty silver. If she could start saving up, it wasn’t unreasonable to think that someday, she might have enough to leave honestly. No more mindless cruelty, no nobles pawing at her sister… she would find something else to tell Beraht. “We’ll sell you both nuggets.”

Olinda nodded and Reyja took her hand off the parcel, pushing it towards the merchant. Olinda reached under the counter and counted out a stack of coins for each of them. “You probably shouldn’t come around here for a while, just in case,” she cautioned as Reyja scooped hers into a purse and tied it securely to her belt.

Leske pocketed the rest of the money. “Thanks, Olinda,” he said with a wink. “I’ll bring you something nice next time I stop by.”

She sent them off into the crowd with a chuckle and a wave, and Reyja tried to swallow the anxiety welling in her throat as they turned towards Beraht’s shop.


	3. Orzammar

"What about Endrin?" Jarvia’s hard voice leaked through the stones of Beraht’s darkened shop as they stepped carefully into the entryway.

" _King_ Endrin," Beraht’s drawl followed, every syllable dripping with scorn, "Will not last much longer. He's old, he's weak, and he'll join the Ancestors soon."

"Bhelen seems far more sympathetic to our cause than Trian. Have you—"

“Bhelen knows who supplies what he wants,” he interrupted, scowling over the top of Jarvia's head at the intrusion as Reyja and Leske shuffled into the main room. "We'll finish this conversation later." Beraht dismissed his second with a flick of his hand and she nodded, retreating towards the back chamber with a peek over her shoulder. Her scarred upper lip carved a permanent sneer into her angular face, and she smirked viciously as she recognized the newcomers. Jarvia watched the Carta with the same fervid attention the men guarding the mouth of the Deep Roads’ tunnels did, always searching for signs of weakness in the ranks to report to Beraht. She made no secret of her fondness for causing pain, physically or with her words, or her intimacy with the boss.

"Have fun, Arno," she called back, lingering at the curtained doorway. "Don't hurt them too much without me." Her open lust for torture made Reyja's skin crawl and she avoided her as often as possible, strongly suspecting that Jarvia was the source of the unflattering rumors about her.

Beraht waved his lover off without looking and she disappeared, leaving only the fluttering curtain in her wake. "It's about time you showed up," he hissed, his voice as hard as flint. "What happened with Oskias?"

Reyja leveled her gaze at him, ignoring the chilling thought that the glint in his eyes meant he already knew what they'd done. The roll of coins weighed heavily from her belt, and she moved carefully to avoid jingling the full purse. "We found him, of course. He wasn't making much of an effort to stay hidden."

"And?"

"He had a side-deal going for lyrium," Leske offered. Reyja nodded.

Beraht gave a low, dangerous laugh. "Some people are slow learners. Sodding idiot should have known: don't lie to me. I can smell it."

A wave of fear rolled up Reyja's throat, but she pushed it down and grunted in what she hoped would read as agreement. She had come too far to show her hand now: her future, and Rica’s, depended on her keeping cool.

"Did he have any on him?" asked Beraht, lumbering out from behind the shop counter.

"No," Reyja replied. Too quickly.

Beraht narrowed his eyes at her. "Are you going to make me ask again?"

Reyja saw Leske risk a quick glance at her out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't dare break Beraht's piercing gaze to return it. "No," she repeated, heart hammering. "He didn't have anything."

Beraht advanced towards her, his lip curling menacingly through his braided beard. "And how would you know that, scum? I happened to have seen a man of Oskias's very description scuttle past here not half an hour before you showed up. Looked awfully alive to me."

"You never said we had to kill him," said Reyja defensively. "We didn't."

"You didn't," Beraht echoed. "I also didn't see any black eyes, any broken noses, any wounds of any kind." He was close enough to grab her by the throat, if he desired, his breath reeking of old smoke and tooth-rot. "What'd you do to him, Reyja, to punish him for stealing from me? Did you strip naked and make him look at you? That would have been cruel, even by my standards."

Reyja flushed a brilliant scarlet and clenched her fists, silently pushing crescent marks into her palms with her fingernails. Comments like that were Jarvia's influence. _Or he just looked at me with his own eyes._ She swallowed hard, holding back tears and her temper, and felt a flash of pride as her voice barely shook when she answered. "He told us it was all topside." That wasn't a lie, at least. "What good would killing him do if you couldn't recover the product?"

"So you let him go?"

"With the understanding that he would be back soon, with the lyrium." Reyja's thoughts flew almost faster than her mouth could speak them. She was walking down a black tunnel without a torch.

"And how much did this understanding cost him?" Before Reyja could leap out of his reach, Beraht ripped the coin purse from her belt, snapping the thin leather strings holding it to her. She staggered against the recoil of the blow, knocking into Leske, who steadied her without a word. "This is an awful lot of coin for a duster like you to be carrying around." He tossed the purse onto the counter behind him. Reyja watched the fruits of her deception spill onto the polished stone in a waterfall of silver, and felt her heart ice over and the world around her darken. The tunnel down which she walked had collapsed. She had failed, at the simplest task, and now Rica would have to pay for her mistake.

Beraht regarded her with disgust. "I am not a patient man, duster," he spat. "That’s twice now you and that whore of a sister of yours have disappointed me. But lucky for you, I happen to find myself in need of another worthless waste of stone.”

His words crashed against her ears with such force that it took her a moment to realize what he had said. Perhaps she could protect Rica yet.

“Make no mistake: if you fuck this up, you'll be glad to end up back on the streets." Beraht pushed himself away from her and began to pace across the room. "The Warrior caste is hosting a Proving today. All the best fighters in the city, last man standing, honor of the Ancestors, blah blah blah." He wheeled around and advanced towards them again, fixing Reyja and Leske with a repugned glare. "Not that the two of you would know anything about honor.

"They're putting on this show for the benefit of the Grey Wardens, who’re here searching for second sons with nothing to lose to drag off to some heroic death. But that's beside the point. It isn't often we get every named fighter lined up like this, and I have some... friends... who have taken an interest in it."

"Are you going to make me fight in this Proving?" Reyja asked through a clenched jaw.

He laughed harshly, spraying her with flecks of foul-smelling spittle. "You? A pathetic excuse for a dwarf who can't even kill an unarmed surfacer without someone holding your hand? Filthy brands like you aren't allowed to bear steel in the Proving arena. It would be an insult to the Ancestors, and every decent dwarf in Orzammar. All you're good for is errand-running, and even that's debatable."

Leske opened his mouth to respond, but seemed to think better of it. Reyja sank her nails even deeper into her palms, forcing herself to focus on the pain rather than the anger or despair welling in her chest. _Do it for Rica. Do it for Rica._ "So what is the job?"

"I want you to make sure the right man wins. There's a lot of coin to be made when people get the fever up, more than enough to make up for losing Oskias." He scowled at her. "That is, if you do it right."

Reyja managed a short nod, as subservient as she could bear.

It seemed to satisfy him. "The favored fighter's Mainar, an officer and the veteran of four darkspawn campaigns. Everd is a long-shot, but he's got spirit. Just got back from the Deep Roads and has all the ladies drooling over him. You might be, too, if there's even juice in that cunt of yours." He laughed cruelly. Reyja kept her eyes down, not trusting her hatred to stay inside if she looked at him. _Do it for Rica._

"I've got money on him, my own and some of my friends'. Eight-to-one odds, and I expect them to pay off, got it?"

Leske spoke up when Reyja didn't respond. "How are we supposed to help him win?"

"By listening to me, very closely. No one knows who's fighting who until right before the bout, and they only tell the contestants themselves. Helps prevent illegal gambling." Beraht bared his teeth in what would have been considered a smile on another man. "So much for that. You two are going to track Everd down, find his opponent, and drug him."

"Drug him?" repeated Leske, puzzled. "With what?"

Beraht dragged himself across the room to the counter again and rummaged underneath it to produce a small, dusty flask. "This. It'll slow the reflexes of whoever's going against Everd, just enough to make him lose but not enough to... suggest foul play. Doesn't last long, though, so don't use it until right before the round."

"Does Everd know you're doing this?" Reyja asked quietly, her voice clipped and restrained.

"I'm not doing anything, brand. You are." His foul grin widened. "But no. He's the kind of warrior who thinks his shit doesn't stink. Just find his chamber, ask who he's fighting, and dump the drug in his water or something."

"We can do that," Leske said quickly.

"Damn right you can. And you will. And when you do, I might even overlook the fact that you tried to steal from me."

Reyja finally met his iron-hard eyes and nodded, just enough to indicate that she would get the job done. As much as she longed to rip Beraht to shreds with her bare hands, she knew she'd done enough damage for one day. Rica's standing couldn't afford another blow, and Reyja would not let her sister down again.

"Casteless aren't usually allowed in the Proving arena," Beraht said, turning away to reach for a scrap of paper. "But I got you a pass. It says you're there to clean out the waste trenches, not watch the fight, so stay low. I'm certainly not risking my neck for you if you slip up: there's ten more just like you lurking in the alleys of Dust Town right now if you ruin this. Now get out of my sight and go win me money."

Reyja and Leske could do nothing but obey.

\----------

The Proving arena stretched up to the roof of the cavern housing Orzammar, its sides sheer down to the shifting lava pool below. A wide pathway led to its guarded double doors, supported by pillars studding the underside. Reyja walked along the cobbled street towards the bridge numbly, her consciousness scrabbling at the inside of her mind like a trapped animal, begging her to run, or to fight, or to react at all. But she clamped down on it. Rica would only be safe if she kept her head, did what she was told, silenced that raging beast for at least one more day. She fixed her eyes on the stones under her feet and let Leske lead the way.

“So,” he said, after several tense moments of silence. “This is a gift, huh? I’ve never been to a Proving.”

“Mm.”

“Come on, Rey. It could have been worse. He let us go, gave us another chance!”

“One more chance. And what are the odds I blow that too?”

Leske turned his head to peer at her as they walked. “Just… don’t do anything stupid like that again. I don’t know why I let you talk me into it in the first place. I should have known he’d see through it.”

Reyja bit her lip. “It would have been so perfect,” she muttered. “We would have been out of here, away from him.”

“I don’t think he would've let you go just like that, no matter how much money you had.”

“He doesn’t control every caravan. We could’ve hired onto someone else’s and been gone.”

Leske stopped, shaking his head. The copper tokens on the ends of his black braids rattled as he reached out to grab her shoulder. “It’s not that easy, Reyja. If it was, everyone would leave. It’s a whole different world up there, you know? It’s not just the sun and the sky and all that, there’s different people and cultures and rules and, shit, I don’t know. I just don’t think you’d be ready.”

“Ready?” Reyja felt her gaze harden. “Who’s ever ready for freedom? I would give anything to get out of here. I can’t keep doing this, Leske. I can’t. I…” The tears she had held back in front of Beraht prickled at the backs of her eyes again, and she looked away, swallowing them. “I can’t keep working for him. Rica can’t. He’s a fucking tyrant, you know it. Everyone knows it.” She took a deep breath, willing the lump in her throat away. “Either he goes, or we do,” she said darkly. They locked eyes for a long moment. Leske looked away with a sigh.

“Alright, so what are your options?” he asked, setting off down the road again.

Reyja shrugged heavily. “I don’t know, really. I suppose I could just punch Beraht in the face the next time I see him and hope for the best.”

“Sure could,” laughed Leske. “I’d offer to hold him down for you, but I’d be worried you’d hit me instead.”

“Aww, I would never.” She could always count on him to let her escape with a joke, diffuse the tension. They walked on quietly, skirting the crowds of dwarves thronging the marketplace.

“What about the Grey Wardens?” Leske asked suddenly as they turned towards the arena.

“What about them?”

“You could join up! They’d get you out of here.”

“I don’t even know what Grey Wardens do.”

“Eh, save the world and all that crap. Supposedly. They fight darkspawn up on the surface, and travel all over the place, and everyone loves them.”

Reyja looked at him oddly. “Uh-huh. What was it Beraht said about them, that they’re here to recruit the sons of nobles and other upstanding citizens who fight well in the Proving? Pretty sure they’re not going to choose some casteless thug over warriors with years of real training, especially not if they’re actually respected on the surface.”

“I’m just saying it’s an option, if you really are looking for another way out of here.”

“And what would Rica do? Just this morning she asked me if I could picture her doing what I do. I said hell, no.”

“Rica will be fine. She’ll have me!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Reyja said shortly.

Leske just laughed again. “You worry too much, about yourself and your sister. She’s almost thirty, you know. You don’t have to protect her.”

“I…” Reyja trailed off, frowning. As hard as she tried to look after her sister, her actions had caused nothing but trouble so far. “Maybe you’re right. After that, maybe it would be safer for her if I just… left. Without her. Beraht couldn’t use us as leverage against each other then. And I could always come back for her, once I made enough coin.”

“That’s the spirit!” Leske said, clapping her on the shoulder.

Reyja smiled at him, though grimly. It would be difficult to leave Rica alone in Dust Town, but if she was right and she had found a suitor, she would be out of Beraht’s hands soon anyway, with a new life and a new family in the Diamond Quarter, even if their mother Kalah tagged along. Rica would adapt to nobility quickly, all the training Beraht had provided finally being put to proper use, but Reyja couldn’t picture herself fitting in, with her callused hands and Carta brands. What would she do when Beraht no longer needed her muscle or her greatsword? “So tell me more about these Grey Wardens,” she said to Leske, her curiosity piqued. “Why would someone want to join them, really?”

“I don’t know, to get the Shapers to write your name in the histories as some mysterious hero? To save a bunch of elves and humans who would otherwise end up as a darkspawn buffet? To honor the terms of our thousand-year-old agreement with them?”

“I don’t know anything about fighting darkspawn, though. I’ve never even seen one. Have you?”

“Just once, and it was dead. I was in the Diamond Quarter for Beraht when they brought back a head from the Deep Roads as a trophy. It was all twisted and bloody, and it smelled like shit. But you’ve always learned quick.”

“That’s true, I guess. Why is there such an old agreement with these people?”

Leske shrugged. “They’re the only surfacers who really care about what happens here. They send someone down for recruitment every few years, I think. Dwarves who join get to keep their castes, not like they would leaving with a caravan or joining the Legion. Not that that matters much for us, but…”

“So they’re hosting a Proving,” said Reyja with a sigh. “Pick of the vein. They might actually get someone with real experience against darkspawn that way. Smart.”

“Yeah, well, you never know what might happen,” he replied, grinning encouragingly. “Maybe you’ll shock the recruiter with those crazy muscles and that fearsome glare and he’ll have no choice but to take you with him.”

“I doubt that very seriously. What about you? Do you have any interest in joining the Wardens? You seem to know a lot about them.”

“Just gossip and children’s stories,” said Leske with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nah, I’d never join. I’ve spent my whole life trying to save my skin. I’m a bit too fond of it to risk it fighting darkspawn. You, though…” He cast an appraising eye over her. “You’re tough and strong and you have a good head on your shoulders. If you’re really looking for a way out, why not the Wardens? You could certainly do worse.”

Reyja gave a wry smile. “I suppose you’re right. It’ll never happen, but you’re right.” They reached the edge of the long bridge separating the Proving arena from the rest of the city. “But we’ve got to save our asses first. Let’s get it over with.”

“From your lips to my ears,” said Leske with a comically deep bow, and they crossed the span of crumbling stone together.

A burly guard half-a-head shorter than Reyja stopped them at the doors on the other end of the bridge and demanded to see the pass Beraht had procured. He eyed it suspiciously, but let them pass into the maze of tunnels and chambers under the arena. Proving fans crowded the lobby and spilled into the halls leading to the fighters’ rooms, talking over each other about the upcoming bouts.

Leske nudged Reyja’s arm as they walked into the entrance hall and pointed towards the passage leading to the pit itself. “Look,” he muttered under his breath, “That must be the Warden!”

Reyja followed his gesture and saw the man towering over the dwarves around him, taller than anyone she had ever seen before and clad in shining silver armor inlaid with a blue griffon rampant. He was older than she had expected, his face lined but handsome under a dark beard speckled with gray. As Reyja observed him, he seemed to realize he was being watched and broke away from his conversation with the Proving master to glance around. He nearly caught her eye before she ducked away and pushed Leske towards the wall, eager to stay beneath the notice of anyone who might remember them.

They slipped along the edge of the room towards the first notch of fighters’ quarters in search of Everd. With nothing obvious to deliver and flimsy permission at best, they couldn’t afford to ask any of the Proving staff to point them towards his chambers. Their brands marked them as both unwanted and out-of-place here, and Reyja knew they were operating on borrowed time.

Still, none of the fighters lining the corridor stopped them as they made their way into the twisting labyrinth of hallways and alcoves, Reyja in the lead, checking the nameplates affixed outside each of the rooms. Leske stared blandly at the letters and Reyja was grateful that Rica had taken the time to teach her to read, a skill almost unknown among the casteless. But they passed chamber after chamber without progress, time ticking away, and Reyja felt a coil of dread wind around her stomach and tighten further with each unsuccessful step they took further into the maze.

Near the end of the corridor, they finally found the billet labeled with Everd’s name. Thunderous snores rolled out from behind the door curtain and Reyja and Leske looked at each other in dismay before entering. Everd was indeed inside, naked from the waist up, and out cold in the deep sleep known only to children and…

“Ancestors save us, he’s stone drunk!” Leske snarled, crouching over Everd. “He could draw a dead man for his bout and still lose!” He picked up one of Everd’s arms and let it fall, heavily, to the stone floor. The man stirred with a grunt and a grumble, but didn’t wake.

Reyja slumped against the wall, fear and shame threatening to drown her. Beraht would have them both killed if they ruined this, whether it was their fault or not, especially compounded by her stunt with Oskias. And Rica…

“Hey,” Leske’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I just had an idea.”

“Is it better than mine, that got us into this mess?” she asked dully.

“All of my ideas are great, you should know that by now.”

Reyja couldn’t muster a laugh. Too much rode on this. “What is it?”

“Well, you’ve been rubbing my nose in the fact that you’re the meanest thing with a blade for years, right?” Leske rose and crossed Everd’s small chamber to the table arrayed with weapons and pieces of armor, prepared for his bout. “And you need to get the Grey Wardens’ attention for them to get you out of here, right?” He picked up a heavy plate gauntlet and grabbed Reyja’s wrist, holding the armored glove up against her hand. “And you’re about the same size as our friend here, right? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I…” Reyja began, but stopped. She had been about to deny that it would work, claim that her involvement would just make an already-bad situation worse, but, she reminded herself, too much rode on this. She knew she was strong, and with armor and a proper greatsword, she could do real damage. Broad enough that she could pass for a man, especially wearing that man’s custom armor and fighting in his name, and with her life and that of her sister in the balance… If she could pull this off, Beraht would be none the wiser. He would win his money and forgive them, Rica would be safe, safe enough to focus her attention on her new suitor and escape from Beraht’s clutches for good, and Reyja herself could escape too, snapped up by the eager Grey Warden recruiter. It was a distant hope, the second in the same busy day, but Everd didn’t look like he would be interfering any time soon, and if the Proving master took offense to her presence on the roster after she was discovered, he would have to capitulate if she won. When she won. A small voice, almost buried in the back of her mind, reminded her harshly that that attitude was what had gotten her into trouble with Oskias, but this felt different. It had to be different. It would be. “Help me with the armor.”

Leske grinned and tossed her the gauntlet before reaching for the bigger pieces of Everd’s ceremonial plate. She might be called to the pit at any moment, and everything depended on concealing her identity until the fights were over. Reyja didn’t know what would happen if she were discovered before she won, but Beraht’s grating laughter reverberated through her head, calling her an insult to the Ancestors and worse. She shoved the thought away. She would not fail this time.

Reyja quickly fastened the clasps of the golden greaves Leske handed her, stepped into Everd’s boots, and let Leske attach the wide pauldrons to her shining new breastplate. She rolled her shoulders experimentally: the armor was uncomfortable, but more in its newness than its fit. She wondered absently if the Grey Wardens would provide plate like this to its new members.

The booming voice of the Proving master echoed through a pipe in the wall moments after she secured her heavy helm. “Bout three is next: officer Mainar versus the warrior Everd! Fighters, report to the ring!”

Leske stepped back to survey her disguise. “Well, you could have beat me up anyway, but with this armor and that sword, you could take on the whole Legion of the Dead!”

“If you say so,” she replied, her voice muffled by Everd’s helmet.

“You’ve got a heart of steel, _salroka_ ,” said Leske fondly. Her throat tightened: he hadn’t called her that in years. “You’ll do great, I know it. Now get in there and kick some noble ass!”

\----------

Fine-grained sand crunched under her boots as Reyja stepped into the blinding glare of the Proving arena, met by thunderous applause and shouts of support from the audience. Everd’s helm narrowed her vision to slits, but beyond them she could make out row upon row of cheering dwarves, and, at the very top of the stands, the white and silver armor of the Grey Warden. She took a deep breath and cleared her mind of Beraht and Rica, of Jarvia and Leske, of the enormity of her undertaking and the consequences of failing, shifting into the animalistic instincts of a street fighter.

Beraht recruited her when she was seventeen and had gotten in over her head. A Carta gang found her wandering the streets the night after her mother had been fired from cleaning the coal chutes, having shown up drunk to one shift too many. Reyja was angry and alone, young, afraid of what the future might hold and spoiling for a fight. She recklessly engaged the four Carta thugs in a darkened alley, and had still been holding her own against them by the time Beraht arrived. He took in her blackened eye and split lip, the far worse wounds on his men, and the fact that she still had her fists up, and laughed. He offered her a position as hired muscle within the Carta, apprenticed to Leske, and less than a month later Beraht was handing over her Carta wristband, signifying her as a full member of the group. Reyja sought the energy she had felt going against those men whenever she knew she would have to fight, and if ever she truly needed it, now was the time.

Across the sand, another heavily-armored dwarf approached, wielding a sword and a shield emblazoned with the crest of a noble house she didn’t recognize. The Proving master’s voice echoed distantly, high above, as if it flowed down from the surface itself. She heard him state the rules of a first-blood Proving. She heard him give honors to the visiting Grey Wardens and to the king. She heard him announce her as Everd, and the other fighter as Mainar, and she heard the loud crash of a gong signal the start of the round.

Reyja narrowed her eyes as Mainar began to stalk around her, searching for a moment to strike. She kept her arms close to her body and moved with him as he circled once, twice. He feinted, but she didn’t fall for it. Swinging a sword as massive as hers took energy she wasn’t willing to expend until she knew it would connect, so she pivoted out of the way and slammed the back of her gauntleted fist against Mainar’s helmet, rattling him. She wheeled around heavily and watched her opponent stagger upright, angry now. He lowered his shield and ran for her, making her leap away again. The weight of her armor nearly overbalanced her, but she caught herself as Mainar halted and snarled his frustration.

The veteran officer prepared another charge, coming at her like a bronto. Adrenaline and instinct turned seconds to hours, and she turned with him, swung her sword at his feet, tripped him as he passed. He tumbled into the sand with a shout. Reyja loomed over him, clasping the hilt of her sword in both hands, her blue eyes ablaze in the shadow of Everd’s heavy helm. She stabbed down into the sand at his throat, tracing a line of blood no thicker than a shaving cut in the wake of her blade. She had won.

Attuned to the fight with eagle-eyed closeness, attendants rushed onto the field to help Mainar away as soon as they caught the glimpse of red. One of them lifted Reyja’s arm in triumph, and the crowd roared its support of her. Another offered her a waterskin, but she shook her head, not daring to speak or remove her helmet. The intermission passed in a blur of activity, and by the time it stilled around her, her next opponent was already making his way onto the sand.

Reyja felt cautious optimism spill into her forcibly-silenced mind as she defeated the man, last year’s Proving Champion, and the next fighter as well. She was breathing heavily, her muscles ached, but only one more warrior stood between her and safety, between her and freedom. The Proving master announced her victorious as she turned away from the bleeding body of the Silent Sister Lenka, who had returned to the stone without a word in the only death-bout of the day. Reyja lifted her head to the zealous crowd and smiled despite herself.

Then the dream collapsed.

Someone, half-naked and stumbling, burst from the fighters’ quarters, followed by a rabble of guardsmen, two of whom held another man in their grasp, a man whose long black braids hung in bedraggled curtains down his shoulders. The Proving master called a halt, demanded an explanation. Reyja froze. Her first opponent, Mainar, who had joined the elite guests and officials at the top of the arena’s stands, recognized the shirtless newcomer and named him Everd. The Proving master demanded that she remove her helmet, and as the guards moved to surround her, she felt the last lingering shreds of hope disintegrate into nothingness. She was trapped and would most likely be killed, Leske with her. But at least she could go to her grave with dignity.

“I am of no caste or clan,” she said, reaching for the clasps of her helmet. “And I have defeated you all.” Reyja’s voice rang out strongly across the arena pit and the crowd gasped as one as she dropped Everd’s helm into the sand at her feet, baring her casteless brand for all to see. The Proving master cursed her and demanded her immediate removal. There would be no escape.

She looked over at Leske, restrained by a guard at each arm with an ugly bruise spreading across his face and fear brightening his eyes. As the ring of warriors closed in around her, she used her last conscious thought to apologize to Rica, for failing, once again, to protect her.


	4. Orzammar

_Reyja?_

Vague images and the scrap of a word floated through her shattered consciousness. _My name._ She felt hard stone pressing into her unarmored back, the stings of cuts and aches of bruises across her body, and, as she surfaced slowly from the depths, the crushing, almost overwhelming weight of defeat squeezing at her heart. Fetching water that morning seemed very far away. She winced at the memory of Rica’s green eyes widening in terror of Beraht’s fury. _Rica._ Tears she’d held back since Beraht discovered her duplicity with Oskias finally spilled over. She tried to stifle the sob. Why had the Proving guards kept her alive? She certainly didn’t merit compassion.

“Reyja?” The voice in the gloom repeated.

She took a shuddering breath and considered remaining silent. Perhaps if she did, the end would come sooner. But it was a friendly voice, concerned about her...

“Can you hear me, Rey?” Leske’s whisper carried, more insistent than before, fear setting his words alight. “Ancestors, how hard did they hit you?”

Shifting to her side was rewarded with a spike of pain blazing through her skull, almost shocking her tears away. She groaned.

“Reyja!” A dull slam, hands on stone. “Are you okay?”

Leske, she tried to say, but no sound came from her mouth. She coughed weakly, sending another aching wave across her forehead. “Leske.”

“Stone’s sodding blessing, I thought you were dead.”

Reyja dragged herself to her knees, blearily scanning the darkness. “Where are you?” she creaked.

“Next cell over,” came Leske’s reply from somewhere to her right. “We were up in the Proving master’s booth for a while, but a whole squad of guards transferred us here. Can’t really say where ‘here’ is, though.” He laughed nervously. “The guy watching us took the torch, but he should be back soon. I think. He didn’t tell me where he was going, obviously, but I can’t imagine it was anywhere good.

“I did look for a way out, but no luck,” Leske continued. Reyja heard his clothing rustle as he stood. “These cells are built straight into the wall, and they confiscated all my lockpicks when they caught me back at the arena. What’s it like on your side? Can you see anything?”

She shook her head absently, then amended her mistake with a spoken, “No.”

“Huh. Well, I don’t know about you, but I would rather find a way out of here than sit around. The sentence for ridiculing the entire Warrior caste is pretty severe, if I recall: public whipping, cutting your hands off, flaying, putting you to death… not exactly my definition of a good time.”

New tears welled in Reyja’s eyes. “It’s no less than I deserve,” she muttered, her throat constricting her words.

“What? Do you even realize how well you did? You beat everyone in that Proving! That’s amazing!”

“Yeah? And for what?” She leaned her head back against the rough stone wall, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as hot tears leaked over her cheeks. “Beraht’s going to…kill her. You know he will.”

“Who, Rica?”

A blade of anger pushed through her crushing sorrow. “Fucking obviously, Rica!” she snarled, startling herself with her own ferocity. “Everything I tried to do today was for Rica! The whole reason I’m even here is for Rica! She—” her voice cracked and she dropped her head into her hands. “She’s worth more than anything I can give. All I’ve done is make everything worse.”

“Rey…” he trailed off, never good at offering comfort. “Your sister loves you, you know?”

“She shouldn’t. No one should. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, trying to—”

“Trying to get Beraht off your back permanently?” Leske interjected forcefully. “Trying to make a better life for yourself and for her? Why is that a bad thing?”

“I failed.” Her words were barely more than a breath in the blackness.

“Then try again.”

Reyja blinked. _Try again._ Trying again had only led to more trouble, hadn’t it? And there wouldn’t even be another opportunity to try again, would there? The cell was locked, the darkness stifling, and neither of them knew where they were. But she was alive, they both were, and that was something to hold onto. While her heart beat, she could still help Rica.

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing herself to slip back into the mindset she had cultivated for situations like this: focused and furious, ready to do what needed to be done. Reyja scrubbed the tears from her face with the back of her hand, feeling the rough fabric strips of Beraht’s badge on her skin. “If there’s anything we can do to get out of here, we need to do it,” she said, her voice still shaky but growing stronger with each spark of resolve that coursed through her veins.

“Now there’s the Reyja I know,” said Leske approvingly. “What’s the plan?”

“I think we—” The metallic clank of a keyring and the scrape of a heavy door cut across her words, followed by several sets of footsteps and the crackle of a torch.

“Well, well, well. So you woke up after all. Arno won’t be pleased to hear that.”

“Jarvia?” Reyja winced into the light as her eyes adjusted.

Beraht’s second, flanked by two of her thugs, grinned viciously, her scarred lips parting over strong white teeth. “You caused a lot of trouble today. We lost over a hundred sovereigns between the betting and Oskias, and it’s all your fault.”

“Is that why you’re here?” asked Reyja, glowering through the bars of her cell. “I’m surprised they’d even let you into the city prison without being bound and gagged.”

“I save that for the bedroom, sweetie. And this isn’t the city prison.”

“What?”

Jarvia laughed, a grating bray. “You really think Beraht would let the Proving guards have you, after all the messes you got him into? He was in such a state when he told me to find you, had me call in every favor I could.”

“I’m honored,” Reyja hissed through her teeth.

“Beraht does love when you put up a fight,” chuckled Jarvia. “Maybe he’ll be happy you survived after all, just so he can watch you breathe your last breath himself. I can’t wait to tell him.” She leaned close to the cell door, leering as if she could already see the blood spattering Reyja’s body. “The entire Proving was declared invalid because of you, and every guardsman there thinks the Ancestors will bless him forever if he cuts off your head. You exposed Beraht in front of the entire Warrior caste, and now they’re all asking questions. As long as you have tongues to answer them, you’re a threat. Both of you.” She shot a glance at Leske as she straightened up triumphantly. “I’m ever so sorry we had to put you in separate cells. How awful to die a virgin.” She snickered. “Beraht’ll be by soon to ensure your silence.”

Jarvia snapped her fingers at her guards and ordered one of them to keep watch. The other followed her out the door, giving no sign he’d heard anything that either of them had said. Reyja watched them go, glaring daggers into Jarvia’s back.

“Well,” Leske said. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

She pressed close to the cell door, barely able to catch sight of him beside her. “Jarvia didn’t mention Rica,” Reyja said in a low voice, wary of the remaining guard. “Which is probably good, right? She’d be rubbing it in my face if Beraht had gotten to her already.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. What are we going to do?”

She shifted against the bars and they rattled loudly. The guard Jarvia had left behind looked over his shoulder angrily. “Hey, watch it, you!” he growled. “Leave off with that noise.”

“Oh, of course,” retorted Reyja, raising her voice. “I’ll just sit quietly and wait for my painful death, then. Sorry to disturb you.”

The thug’s heavy brow furrowed. “Uh, right,” he muttered. “As you should be.” He looked at her quizzically for another moment, then shook his head and turned around again.

She heard Leske laugh softly. “I really don’t know why anyone tries to fight you,” he whispered. “No one ever wins.”

Reyja clenched her jaw. “And Beraht won’t either.” She retreated from the shaky bars to scan her cell, now illuminated by the flickering light of the guardsman’s torch. Craggy rubble sat in piles along the walls, recently cleared to allow room for an unfortunate prisoner. She crouched down for a closer look, shifting one of the rocks to test its weight. It clattered to the floor and she shot a quick look at the guard, who seemed to be resolutely ignoring her. She wondered if the man’s thick skull would protect him from a heavy stone, but quickly discounted that course of action: even if it worked, they would still be locked in, and the noise could bring others running. Reyja frowned and nudged the rockpile with her toes, trying to think.

A splinter of wood rolled across the dusty cell floor, dislodged by her prodding, and came to rest against her foot. Jagged and pointed, about the size of her finger, she knelt to pick it up. It seemed solid enough that it might survive a lockpicking attempt in the hands of someone capable. “Leske,” she muttered. “I think I found something.”

“Yeah?” Leske met her at the bars.

“Maybe. Can you do anything with this?” She held up the splinter, reaching out of her cell to offer it to him. They could barely bridge the gap, even stretching.

“I think so. Give me a minute.”

Reyja kept half an eye on Leske, anxiously watching the guard instead. Had he turned around, they would be dead. But they were dead anyway, as soon as Beraht made an appearance, and Jarvia’s thug was more immersed in polishing a dagger beneath the torch’s guttering flame than checking on his charges.

A small click, almost imperceptible, and Leske was free. He slid the door open only far enough to escape and began to cross the small chamber towards the unsuspecting guard. Stealthy and smooth, as silent as his own shadow, he plucked the man’s dagger from his hand and drew it across his throat in one movement, muting his dying gasp with his other hand and catching the guard as he stumbled back. Grimacing, Leske laid the body on the earthen floor and lifted the keyring from his belt, ignoring his feeble kicks and voiceless cries of pain as he bled out.

He fanned out the keys and began testing them in the lock of Reyja’s cell door. “Well, we know we’re in Beraht’s hideout, I guess,” he said. “Shouldn’t be too hard to get out, right?”

“Right,” answered Reyja, watching his progress. “Try that big one on the end. It looks like the same metal.”

It wasn’t. “Sure is a shame they took Everd’s armor and sword away from you. All we’ve got is this guy’s little knife to fight our way out with.”

“The little knife that you just used to kill him?” She nodded at the guard, whose struggles had ceased. His eyes reflected the firelight, glassy and unseeing.

“Huh. Yeah. Maybe we’ll be fine, then,” Leske chuckled, trying another key. “But I can’t sneak up on everyone. Are you going to be alright fighting? You were out for a long time.”

“I have to be.” Reyja rolled her shoulders. “Yeah, I’m good. A little sore, but good.”

“Good.” Her door swung open on rusting hinges, shrieking its movements as if in pain. “Mm, glad you didn’t get out first. That creaking would have made things difficult.” Leske tucked the rest of the keys into his pocket.

“Let’s move. Beraht might be on his way already, and the longer we wait the more time he has to get Rica.”

“You know, we’re kind of in danger here, too,” Leske said, following Reyja as she strode towards the door.

“We can defend ourselves. Rica can’t.”

“She’s stronger than you think, Rey. Noble hunting isn’t easy. You should be looking after yourself first. That’s what I do.”

They ventured carefully into the hallway. Reyja grunted. “And you’re the model of a responsible dwarven citizen, are you?”

“I never said that. I just mean you could be a little more selfish. It might be good for you.”

She looked at him incredulously. “Should I selfishly leave you here to die, then?”

“Look, I know I’m not a Paragon or anything,” Leske whispered as they crept along the darkened corridor, leaving the pool of torchlight leaking from the open door behind. “But you spend so much time caring about Rica and what Rica needs and how Rica will live that you don’t look after yourself.”

“But she’s all I have,” Reyja glanced around the corner into a bigger passage as they reached it.

“And you’re never going to have anything else until you stop putting all your energy into her. Do something for you for a change.”

“Is this really the time for life advice?” asked Reyja, getting annoyed. “Or can we focus on the daring escape attempt?”

“Just trying to help, _salroka_. I owe you for getting us out of there.” She felt Leske shrug beside her in the dark.

“So you’re paying me back with cheesy self-help garbage. Thanks.”

“Maybe it is cheesy, but if we get out of here, we’ll be fucked unless we leave the city. Otherwise Beraht will just catch us again.” Leske sighed. “So you’re going to be away from Rica one way or the other, and it’ll kill you unless you figure out something else to pour yourself into.”

Reyja swallowed. “I… didn’t realize you knew so much about me.”

“Ha, it doesn’t take much to see how much you love your sister, Rey. But you’re right: we need to focus. Sorry I said anything.”

“No, it’s… thank you.”

“Does that ‘thank you’ count for me springing you, too? You never said it back there.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course.”

“You’re welcome, then.”

They carried on in silence, slipping through shadows and ducking into alcoves to avoid passing patrols. Beraht maintained a long series of tunnels meandering through the stone under his shop for storing smuggled goods and housing the Carta members who didn’t have anywhere else to live. Neither Leske nor Reyja knew the paths through the twisting corridors well, but were confident enough that they could make their way out, as long as they could avoid being seen. Leske took the lead for most of the journey, his hand resting on the pommel of the dagger at his hip. Reyja noticed a cache of weapons as they crept through a storage room and rummaged through it for the largest sword she could find. She felt more comfortable, safer, with it hanging across her shoulders, even if a greatsword wasn’t the most practical choice for the close confines of the corridors.

Slowly, the tunnels began to slope upwards and the torches studding the passages were placed more regularly. The earthen floor became stone, the roughly hewn walls smoothed, and soon they were stopped by a flimsy wooden door. Leske dug in his pocket for the ring of keys he had taken from their jailer, but Reyja grabbed his wrist to silence the jingling. Voices drifted towards them from the room beyond the door, one of them Beraht’s unmistakable growl.

Reyja consciously tried to slow her breathing as she pressed her ear against the ancient wood. Maybe Beraht would leave soon, through a different door, and bypass them entirely. But that was a distant hope.

“I think I’ll cut the whore free. If that freak of a sister of hers can’t stay in her place, I don’t need precious little Rica either.” Muffled but intelligible, Beraht’s words slipped around her neck like a noose.

A chorus of heavy laughter. “I think I’ll have a crack at her before she’s spoiled, then,” a new voice cackled. “Always wondered if a redhead’s cunt would be the same shade.”

“Have at her, boys,” drawled Beraht. “If you all go at once, there won’t be as big of a mess to clean up.”

Reyja felt her body shrug free of her mind’s tethers. Her limbs moved of their own accord, drawing the sword from her back and bracing herself against the door, measuring the distance at which she would need to be to break it down. Leske was speaking urgently, but she ignored him. The blood pounding in her ears goaded her on.

Her strong kick knocked the door loose, sagging on its hinges. She barely felt the pain of the impact as she stalked into the room, eyes fixed on Beraht. Even his cronies stumbled back from the fury emanating from her.

“I swear by the fucking Stone, I’ll kill you,” snarled Reyja, hefting her sword.

Beraht met her gaze like he was expecting her. “The Stone doesn’t favor filthy, useless brands like you.” He crossed his meaty arms over his chest.

She bared her teeth in a savage grin. “Then how did I win your Proving?” Without waiting for an answer, she lunged at him, swinging her blade in a massive arc to scatter the other men. She had no quarrel with them. They sprinted out of the chamber at her attack, running straight into Leske, who hit one of them with a backhanded punch while tripping the other.

“Reyja!” he shouted, but she was past hearing him. He pulled his stolen dagger from his belt and stabbed it down into the eye socket of the man on the floor, killing him instantly. The man he’d hit scrambled away, blood streaming down his face from his broken nose. He stood to bolt down the hallway, but Leske tugged his dagger loose and threw it forcefully into the thug’s retreating back. He fell with a muffled grunt and was still. Leske smiled to himself: Jarvia’s private lessons with the small blade, among other things, had proven useful already.

Beraht ducked under Reyja’s next blow with a swiftness belying his size, drew a knife, and wheeled to face her. She stared him down unblinkingly, hearing only her own panting breaths and racing heart. Still raging, she circled him, pinning him back against the wall step by step with feints and force. “You will never hurt Rica again,” she hissed, lifting her greatsword over her head with both hands.

“I haven’t done a damn thing to your whore of a sister,” spat Beraht, pointing his knife at her with a trembling hand. “It was all your fault.”

Reyja’s sword drooped minutely. Beraht noted her lapse of concentration with a triumphant sneer and struck out, slashing at her face with his blade. She leaned away quickly enough to receive only a glancing scratch, but it burned as it sliced through her skin, carving a new scar above her eyebrow. Reyja roared wordlessly, pouring boiling anger into the sound. Beraht’s foul grin faltered in the wake of the cry and he recoiled from her.

She brought her sword down with all of her considerable strength behind it, sinking through Beraht’s fleshy shoulder deep into his chest, the heavy metal breaking bone as it passed. A spray of blood erupted from his mouth, spattering her, and he died with a breathless gasp as the blade split his heart.

She was free. Reyja released her grip on the borrowed greatsword and stumbled back from Beraht’s body. Slowly, she felt the world come back into focus around her, relief flooding her veins. _I am free._

“Ancestors’ blessed shit, you did it!” Leske shouted, rushing across the room to her side. “You just charged in and fucking slaughtered Arno Beraht!”

Reyja pushed her blood-soaked hair away from her eyes. “I…”

“After winning a fucking Proving!”

“I guess I…”

“They ought to make you a Paragon for this!” crowed Leske, clapping her on the shoulder. “Do you have any idea how many Carta members will thank you for what you just did?”

“That’s not why I…”

“Right, right, right, you did it for Rica, I know.”

She startled at the strange, vicious glint in Leske's eyes as she met his gaze. “Yeah.” It faded as she looked at him. _Just a trick of the light?_ “I hope she’s okay.”

“Beraht sure was talking like she was still alive. We can go find her, if you want. I certainly won’t turn down a chance at a final peek.”

“‘A final peek?’ But she should be safe now,” Reyja said, confused.

“Actually, now that you mention it, you’re right,” laughed Leske. “I was just thinking that it would be the last time I saw her because we were going to have to leave the city, but with Beraht gone, there’s no reason for that now.”

“Oh, right.”

He paused. “You still want to leave, don’t you?”

“I…” She looked away from. “I don’t know. What if you’re right and I’m too protective of her? What if Beraht was right when he said everything was my fault? What if I was right,” she said, her voice hardening. “When I said that she deserved better than what I could give her?”

“Rey—”

“I think I’ve done all I can for her now, and my mother. I mean, without Beraht, they’ll be free. Just like I will.”

“Well,” said Leske, “I still think it’s a great idea. And you did win the Proving, after all. I heard the Grey Warden recruiter trying to convince the Proving master to release you to him while we were being held at the arena. I don’t know what happened with that, but there’s always hope.”

Reyja smiled genuinely for the first time in many days. “You know, before today, I would have called you an idiot for saying that. But so many things have gone right—”

“—after going horribly, horribly wrong,” Leske interjected.

“—that I think you might be onto something with this whole hope thing,” she finished with an amused smirk. “Thanks, Leske.”

“Don’t mention it, _salroka_. Now let’s get out of here: we’ve got a Rica to find.”

\----------

The Proving master found them first, along with a pack of guardsmen and the Grey Warden recruiter, all crowded outside the entrance to Beraht’s shop as soon as Leske and Reyja emerged.

“There they are!” The Proving master shouted, pointing at them. “Seize the fugitives!”

“Whoa, whoa,” soothed Leske, stepping in front of her with his hands raised passively. “We, well, she, just killed Arno Beraht, the guy who really spoiled your Proving! You should be thanking us, not arresting us.”

“Beraht is dead?” The Proving master scowled. “He may have had enemies, but he also had powerful allies, and—”

“And he would have butchered us both, and insulted the Ancestors by gambling on a Proving again, if she hadn’t killed him.” Leske’s voice rang out strongly over the gathering. “Justice has been done, wouldn’t you say?”

“It seems as if your friend has proven her courage once more,” a calm, stately voice suggested. The Grey Warden waded through the crowd to the Proving master’s side. He nodded to her, smiling gently. “I have traveled far and wide in search of those with the potential to join our ranks. It seems I have found what I came to Orzammar for in you.”

Reyja blushed and looked away from his deep brown eyes. “Are you asking me to become a Warden?”

The recruiter chuckled. “That I am. Allow me to make my offer formal: I, Duncan of the Grey Wardens, extend the invitation to you, Reyja Brosca, to join our order.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the Proving master interrupted with a sputtering protest. “This woman is wanted for treason, Ser Duncan! You can’t do this!”

Duncan arched an eyebrow. “I can and I am.” He turned to Reyja again. “It would mean traveling to the surface lands and thus leaving your people, but it would offer you the chance to strike a mighty blow against the darkspawn and the Blight.”

“I… right. About that.” She bit her lip. “I… don’t actually know anything about darkspawn.”

“You are a survivor, are you not?” Duncan said kindly. “Fighting darkspawn is something we can teach you, but the rest must come to you naturally. And from what I’ve seen, you not only have the skill to best the most promising warriors in Orzammar, but also the courage to take on those deemed your betters.” He smiled again. “Few I have met are so qualified.”

Reyja was speechless. The Proving master still fumed, but Duncan’s forcefulness seemed to have quieted him down. “W-well, I…” A flash of brilliant red hair caught her eye. “Rica?” Her sister beamed at her from the edge of the crowd, waving. Reyja's heart leapt. “Oh, I’m sorry, um, Duncan, but I have to talk to my sister before I answer you. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

She smiled gratefully, considered bowing to him, thought better of it, and plunged into the crowd. “Rica! Thank the Ancestors you’re alright.”

“I could say the same to you, little sister!” Rica said as she wrapped Reyja in a hug. “I was ready to kill you myself when I heard what you’d done at the Proving, but it worked out for the best in the end!”

Reyja pulled away from her, puzzled. “How do you know about that?”

“Are you kidding? It’s all over Dust Town already. Everyone’ll be talking about this for years.”

“Oh.” Reyja didn’t know how to respond to that. “Um.”

“But that doesn’t matter. You’re going to join the Wardens, aren’t you? You have to join!”

“I want to, but—”

“Then do it! You won’t have another opportunity like this”

“But what about you? And Mother?”

Rica waved her concerns away. “Oh, don’t hold yourself back because of us. We’ll be fine, I promise. And I think for the first time, I really mean it when I say that. I spent the afternoon with my… new patron.” She blushed. “He calls me his ‘amber rose’ now, isn’t that sweet?”

“Um, yeah. That's great.” She wasn’t convinced. “Is this the man you told me about this morning?”

“Yes,” giggled Rica. “He promised me today that he would move me and Mother into better housing, so he can, well, so he can find me more quickly when he wants me.”

Reyja stared at her sister incredulously. “And you’ll be happy like that?”

“I will be. Truly. You know I could never make a life fighting darkspawn, but if I can bear a son that will make his house proud? That’s all I can ask for.” Rica smiled glowingly. “But you can choose to make yourself happy too, Rey. You deserve it.”

Reyja felt tears well in her eyes as she pulled Rica into a final, clashing embrace. “I’m going to miss you,” she said thickly, giving her sister a squeeze.

“Me too. But those are the rules of the order, right? Everyone has to leave their families behind. We’ll all be okay.”

“But I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again,” Reyja said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "Once I leave, they might not let me come back."

“I’m sure they will. And maybe I’ll even be able to greet you as an equal by then, if everything works out. Now go.” She gestured at Duncan. “Tell him you’re ready to be something more than a whore’s little sister.” With a last beaming grin, Rica melted away into the crowd.

Reyja, sniffling but proud, began to make her way back towards the waiting Warden, catching sight of Leske as she passed through the wall of guardsmen. “See?” he said smugly as he approached. “What’d I tell you? She’s the loudest one telling you to go. Rica never wanted this to be your life, Rey.”

“Yeah,” Reyja agreed, staring into the distance absently. “Will you be alright?”

“Of course. Leske always lands on his feet. Maybe I’ll take over the Carta, now that Beraht’s out of the way.”

She laughed. “Yeah, good luck with that. You’ll have to convince Jarvia that that’s a good idea.”

“No challenge is too tough for me, you know that.”

“Sure. Thanks again, Leske. I couldn’t have done this, any of this, without you. I’ll…” Reyja faltered. “I’ll miss you.”

“Ah, don’t get all cheesy on me. You got mad at me earlier for that.”

“I guess this is pretty selfish of me, isn’t it?”

“You’re really taking my advice to heart. Like I said, it’s good for you.”

She smiled. “Thanks again.”

“You too,” Leske answered with a grin. “Now get over there before that Duncan guy comes to his senses and gets the fuck out of Orzammar without you.” He waved her away.

Reyja smiled beatifically to herself as she started back towards Duncan again. She felt like she was floating over the cobblestones, away from her own body, moving towards a future drastically different than the one to which she had awakened that morning.

Duncan inclined his head to her as she rejoined him in front of the assembled Proving guards. “Have you made your decision?”

“I have,” Reyja heard herself say. “I’m ready to join you.”

“Then before these witnesses,” Duncan said with a smile, “I hereby recruit you into the Grey Wardens. Know that you are most welcome.”

Reyja knew it.


	5. Ostagar

One was never far from darkness in Orzammar. Shadowed crevices in the stone flickered in the glow of the shifting lava and the constant terror of the Deep Roads lurked just out of sight, steeping the city in black and bloody red. There was beauty in it, but it was simple, uniform, awe-inspiring in its grandeur rather than its subtlety.

But the surface… Reyja’s breath caught as she emerged with Duncan through the grand carved doors, as tall as the cavern itself. Though the clouds rose like cave walls, stacked on the horizon, they were pale, gossamer, soft, a shade of gray that stone could never emulate. Orzammar had been monochromatic ruddy ambers and oranges, the colors of fire and dried blood and molten rock. Outside, just beyond the city, were all of those and more: the hazy blue of distant mountain peaks, the vibrant, living green of tall sentinel pines, the gentle pink and yellow of scattered autumn wildflowers. Duncan slowed their descent through Gherlen’s Pass, giving Reyja the opportunity to feel the caress of waving grasses under her hands and the flow of wind down the Frostbacks, bringing with it the promise of winter as it tousled her hair.

Duncan warned her of the impending darkness of evening with an understanding smile at the confusion that flitted across her face as the sun sank, and halted to make camp before it disappeared completely. Reyja watched the glow bury itself beneath the horizon and marveled at how different the land looked under new colors, how such a constant as light could not be constant at all on the surface. Orzammar was stagnating in a thousand years of sameness, stewing in traditions ages out of date, but here, every day began anew, its changes tracked in the paths of the sun and the moon across the vaulted sky.

They wended south and east through barren hillscapes and verdant forests, skirting a body of water that shifted and shrugged like Orzammar’s lava pool. Duncan called it Lake Calenhad, named for the founder of the country through which they traveled: Ferelden. With every step she took away from her home, Reyja felt new strength buoy her above her initial trepidation. Beraht was dead at her hand, giving Rica and Leske and the rest of the Carta a chance to forge new lives for themselves just as she was, free to walk forever and never step in the same place twice.

It was easy to talk to Duncan. He pointed out plants and animals, gave the villages they passed names she immediately forgot, told her where she would end up if she went north across the sea or west through the mountains. Reyja listened with wide-eyed intensity, most of his words next to meaningless to her at first. But he gave her the answers he could and encouraged her curiosity. Nearly a week after they left Orzammar, she found herself out of questions to ask.

“I think this is the most I’ve ever spoken to a stranger,” she admitted, staring into the crackling fire to avoid Duncan’s eyes.

“I am not surprised. Your people, while skilled in many things, don’t take kindly to uninvited intrusions from the outside world.”

“I mean, even in Dust Town, around other dwarves. No one just talks to each other. You have to need something from someone to strike up a conversation.”

Duncan smiled kindly. “That is not unique to Orzammar, I’m afraid.”

Reyja picked absently at her stew. She could name the ingredients now: venison, onions, carrots, potatoes, flavored with basil and thyme picked along the road, all steeped in wine. “I’ve asked about a lot of things,” she said after a long pause, setting the bowl down. “But not about you.”

“The natural world is a far more interesting subject than me, I think,” chuckled Duncan. “I had many of the same questions when I left Val Royeaux.”

“That’s in Orlais, right? To the west?”

“Indeed. The capital of the Orlesian empire, in fact. My family settled in the city when I was a child.”

“Did you like it there?”

He hesitated. “Yes and no. It was time for me to leave, past time, when I joined the Wardens.”

“Like me,” said Reyja quietly.

A log shifted in the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the night. “Yes. You are very skilled, Reyja, especially for your upbringing,” Duncan said. “But that is only part of why I chose to recruit you. In truth, I saw much of myself in you. I, too, had gotten into trouble before the Grey Wardens came to my rescue. I killed a man, in fact.”

“You did?”

“I did. But the order gave me a chance at freedom, allowed me to see the world. I wanted to offer you the same. I do not regret my decision.”

Reyja blinked, stunned. “And I’ll make sure you never do,” she vowed when her voice returned.

“There is no need to place such expectations on yourself,” he chided gently. “It never served me.”

The whispers of the wildlands grew louder as the silence between them lengthened. Reyja shifted uneasily, embarrassed. “Do you miss Val Royeaux?” she asked.

Duncan sighed. “I did, once. I’ve since returned there many times, but it isn’t the same as I left it.”

“Oh. Did you leave anyone behind?”

“You worry about your sister.” It wasn’t a question.

She let her gaze shift away from him. “I owe her a lot.”

“As she owes you, from what I gather. I’m sure that your actions before we departed will ensure her safety.”

“You mean killing Beraht?”

“Yes,” he said, laughter in his voice. “I mean killing Beraht. It was very brave of you.”

“No, it wasn’t.” The words were out of her mouth before Reyja could stop them.

Duncan raised an eyebrow at her from across the fire.

“I just mean, well, I just mean that it didn’t feel like I was doing anything special at the time. Afterwards, it did, but when I was there, with Leske…” She frowned. “I didn’t feel anything. It’s like I wasn’t in my own body. I knew I was moving and I knew I was there, but I didn’t feel it.”

The senior Warden was quiet for several moments. “I believe I know what you mean,” he said. “I spent time on the streets myself, before joining the Order. To survive, you take pieces of yourself and hide them, so you are able to do what you must. It’s a hard way to live, but a good way not to die.” He smiled warmly at her. “It will get easier.”

“How?”

“It helps a great deal to be around those who understand. You would be surprised at the strength of the bonds you form fighting alongside people with a common goal. There are two other recruits who will be joining when you do: perhaps you will feel more at ease when you meet them. But the love you feel for your sister and your friend will not be lessened, if that is what you fear.”

“A little.They were all I had.” She eyed him cautiously. “Will I ever see them again?”

“Perhaps. You are not forbidden to visit, should the opportunity arise and you are not needed elsewhere.” Duncan rose, towering over her in the darkness, his bearded face illuminated by the fire. “But I cannot say what your future will hold. Do you truly wish to go back?”

The chance to escape again wouldn't come readily, and the thought of willingly returning to the dark after this taste of freedom, even for Rica, stuck coldly in her throat like tears. “No.”

“You are a Grey Warden now. You must follow your own life’s path and let those you left behind follow theirs.” He smiled and offered his hand to help her up.

She took it. “Thanks. And now that I think about it,” she said as she stood, “I wonder if the guards would even let me in if I tried to go back myself. Without the Wardens, I think I'm essentially dead in Orzammar.”

“I suppose that gives you an added incentive to stay with us,” Duncan chuckled.

“You’re not wrong. But I didn’t need one, not really.” Reyja looked into the dancing flames. “Leske told me before I left that I was stifling myself by protecting Rica all the time. I’d never really thought about it before, but every decision I made had to go through a ‘what would happen to my sister if I chose this’ filter, you know? I still thought about that, about her, when I joined you, but she said she’d be all right. I asked. It just… I just feel so selfish, picking myself over her.” She sighed. “But it’s good. It feels right to be here, to be doing this. And it’s good for me. Leske said that, too.”

“Your friend is wise,” said Duncan. “One must care for themselves if they are to care for others.”

“I’m not used to things feeling right,” she confessed with a wry twist of her lips.

“As I said, it will get easier. Learning to trust your own instincts is a long battle, often hard-fought.”

“Yeah.” Reyja hesitated. “Thank you, Duncan. Really. I don’t think I can thank you enough for getting me out of there.”

“I would suggest that you got yourself out. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“There are probably people who would argue that.”

He smiled at her. “Perhaps so. But I cannot change what has been done, and neither can they.”

“Nope. There’s nothing to do but just keep moving forward, right?”

“That is correct. Trust yourself, Reyja. One day you may find that the ability to do so may be the only thing that truly protects you.”

\----------

Ferelden passed in a swirl of autumn leaves as they pushed towards Redcliffe, a village perched on the southern tip of Lake Calenhad. Duncan was eager to arrive, having set a rendezvous with another pair of Grey Wardens for the last day of Kingsway, fast approaching. He’d sent them to discuss matters of importance with the arl, matters regarding their final destination far to the south. The names and locations passed through Reyja’s ears in a jumble, but from what she could gather, they were headed to an old fortress to join the king of Ferelden in fighting an incursion of darkspawn on the surface. “A fitting task for new Wardens,” Duncan told her. She didn’t know if the twisting in her stomach was fear or excitement.

They camped at a crossroads in the farmland outside Redcliffe, awaiting the arrival of the others. The senior Warden laid out more details of their plans as he sparred with Reyja, testing her skills with a greatsword himself and teaching her better ways of blocking attacks from opponents who were armed and trained, rather than street fighters desperate to eke out a living in Dust Town. He parried her slow swings deftly, talking easily as Reyja huffed her way through the drill. The greatsword Duncan had procured was heavier than the one she’d left behind, as if weighed down with the history of the Wardens who had wielded it before her. Its broad blade was speckled with rust, no matter how hard she scrubbed at it, marks of the years of service it had already seen.

Kingsway’s last sun was fading by the time the other Wardens arrived, stealing into camp in the gathering twilight. Duncan greeted them warmly, though their faces stayed grim. The taller of the two, a man named Etrick, gave Reyja a cursory glance and a short greeting before turning back to Duncan, his thin lips pressed together. The other, a thin, heavily-scarred elf whose name she didn’t catch, shrugged off his pack and began to set up another tent without a word. She kept her mouth shut and her eyes down, avoiding the newcomers with unexpected shyness.

Duncan elected not to linger in Redcliffe but resume their journey immediately the next morning. Whatever he’d heard in Etrick’s report made him surly, and he spent more and more of his time locked in discussions with the other Wardens, leaving Reyja to walk alone. She didn’t mind, though she found questions that had once flowed easily dying on her tongue before she could ask them.

The air grew colder and the land wilder as they ventured south, following an ancient roadway guarded by tall white arches, many of them broken and crumbling. The King’s Road, Reyja heard Etrick call it. Finally, the ground split into a long canyon and she caught her first glimpse of Ostagar through the trees, an ancient fortress large enough to span the canyon completely, surrounded by an army’s worth of tents and fires.

Duncan sent the other Wardens to claim space for their tents as they entered the ruins, keeping Reyja at his side to show her around. They passed the encampments of the king’s troops, of mages and templars, of fierce Ash Warriors and their painted dogs. Most left them alone, until a shout made Duncan stop with a chuckle as they crossed the long walkway bridging the two sides of the canyon. “It appears we will be receiving a royal welcome,” he said to Reyja, gesturing towards a gold-clad figure surrounded by guards rapidly approaching from the far side of the bridge.

“Ho there, Duncan,” the newcomer said with a beaming grin, his long blond hair tumbling freely around his shoulders. “I was beginning to worry that you’d miss all the fun.”

Duncan returned the smile. “Not if I can help it, your Majesty.” Beside him, Reyja froze. _The king?_

“Then I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side in this battle after all. Glorious!” He laughed, and Reyja found herself wanting to laugh with him, though out of nerves or charm she couldn’t say. “And who’s this?”

It took her a moment to realize he was referring to her.

“Are you the new Warden recruit? I heard Etrick and Gideon talking about you when I passed their camp, I think.”

 _The king has heard about me?_ “Oh, um, I’m Reyja, your Majesty. Reyja Brosca.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” he said. She almost believed him, though sincerity was the last thing she expected from a human king, especially one meeting a casteless dwarf. “As you probably gathered, I’m Cailan Theirin, son of Maric, son of Moira, blah blah blah. I’m supposed to recite my whole genealogy, but I won’t subject you to that. I must say I’m surprised to see one of the honorable Children of the Stone outside Orzammar, even in the company of the Grey Wardens.”

“Honorable?” Reyja did laugh at that, forgetting who she was talking to in the face of the king’s informality. “Sorry, but you must be thinking of the nobles.”

He chuckled lightly. “It sounds like there’s a story behind that. You must regale me with it sometime.”

Then she remembered. “Um, sure. There’s really not much to tell, but I guess I could, if, uh, your Majesty wishes.” Reyja felt a blush creep across her branded cheeks.

If Cailan noticed, he gave no sign of it. “I do wish it, yes. I’ve been to Orzammar, you know. King Endrin invited my father to a Grand Proving when I was a boy. How does your king fare these days?”

She blinked, trying to remember anything about Endrin other than his name. “Personally,” she said slowly, coming up blank, “I don’t think I could pick him out of a crowd.”

“Ah, I see. I hope he’s well, at any rate. He seemed fair and wise, from what I recall, and those are qualities any ruler should hope to emulate.”

One of Cailan’s guards leaned forward to tap him on the shoulder. The king wrinkled his nose and shrugged away from the man’s hand. “Apologies,” he said with a sigh. “But I must be returning to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to discuss his numerous strategies with me.”

“Of course, your Majesty. When we passed Redcliffe, your uncle asked me to send his greetings and remind you that his forces could be here within a week,” said Duncan, eyeing Cailan’s reaction almost cautiously.

“Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory. I don’t need his help. We’ve won three battles against these monsters already and this one will be no different. I’m not even sure this is a true Blight, despite your claims, Duncan. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field but there’s been no sign of an archdemon.”

“Are you disappointed, my lord?” asked Duncan dryly.

Cailan looked away from them over the yawning canyon. “I’d hoped for a war like in the tales, a noble king riding into battle with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god!” He clenched his armored fist and raised it high before letting it relax. “But I suppose this will have to do.”

The guard behind him cleared his throat meaningfully and Cailan turned back with a long-suffering smirk. “I really must be going, unfortunately. Loghain will send out a search party if I don’t. Farewell, Grey Wardens.”

Duncan waved the king off, but his eyes were clouded, troubled, as he turned to gaze across the ravine as Cailan had. “What the king said is true,” he said quietly. “They’ve won many battles against the darkspawn here.”

“You don’t sound very reassured by that, though,” said Reyja as Cailan and his guards disappeared around a corner at the end of the bridge.

He smiled bitterly. “I know there is an archdemon behind this, but I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.”

“Why not?” she asked, cocking her head. “He seems to like the Wardens. You, in particular. I think he’d listen to you.”

“I have given him my suggestions. As you saw, however, he is not always amenable to receiving aide. I told him to wait for reinforcements from the Grey Wardens in Orlais, but he believes the legends surrounding us make us invulnerable.” He sighed and ran a hand through his long, dark hair. “Our numbers in Ferelden are too few, hence my seeking to recruit warriors in Orzammar. But we must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference.”

She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. Duncan stared out over the steep canyon walls for several moments before shaking his head and squaring his shoulders. “But such are concerns for generals, not new Warden recruits,” he said. “And I believe I’ve shown you everything of importance here. You may continue to explore the fortress yourself, if you wish, though I ask that you do not leave it for the time being. I will be returning to our camp, should you need anything.” He departed, following Cailan across the bridge and leaving her among the towering ruins.

Reyja wandered through the stones for many hours, dragging her hands along the carvings gracing the columns and arches. She felt the history in them, undisturbed by the presence of new men clashing with each other in the valley far below, their laughter and shouts drifting to her ears on a chill wind. A soldier nodded to her as she passed a palisade and she stiffened before she remembered that she wasn’t in Orzammar any longer, that she hadn’t been for nearly a month now, that the presence of a guard didn’t need to put her on edge here. She returned the nod with a tight-lipped smile and kept walking back towards the main camp.

Watching the sunset had become a nightly ritual while traversing Ferelden with Duncan, one Reyja wasn’t eager to give up now that they had reached their destination. The rays streaking across the sky captivated her, the subtle spokes of sunlight piercing the aura of soft pink and orange as it faded into bruise-dark purple and evening blue, colors she’d known of but never truly appreciated until she saw them blaze across the sky like yarn spilling from an overturned basket. She sighed happily as she paused to take in the view halfway across the bridge, lifting her face into the wind. She was further from her home than anyone she’d known, in the company of warriors who graced legends from ages past, and had made the acquaintance of a king who knew about her before she knew about him, all before dinner. Reyja grinned. _If only Rica could see me now, see what I’ve done in so little time._ She took a last look at the golden horizon and continued into the rings of tents.

As evening gathered, the camp began to bustle with activity. Soldiers came back from their drills in droves, hungry and sore and eager to rest before the next day’s work. Reyja kept her eyes down as she walked, following the enticing smell of roasting meat towards the Grey Warden camp. Duncan smiled at her as she approached. “Ah, I wondered when you would return.”

She held her hands up to the blazing flames to warm them. “I was just looking around. This is a beautiful place. Sorry, did you need me for something?”

“There is no need to apologize. I simply wished to introduce you to your fellow recruits.” He gestured at a pair of men sitting on the other side of the fire.

“Oh, right!” She gave a small, awkward wave, having nearly forgotten that Duncan mentioned others who were joining the Wardens as well. “I’m Reyja,” she said, nodding to them.

They both rose to greet her, though she didn’t think it was necessary. Even sitting, the larger of the two was almost at her eye level.

“A dwarf, eh? I didn’t think they really meant it. Guess I owe you 10 silvers, Jory,” one of them said as he stood. “The name’s Daveth.”

The other grumbled. “I told you I wasn’t betting.”

“I hope you’re more fun than he is,” Daveth said in an exaggerated whisper, holding up his hand to hide his pointing at Jory. “Can’t get nothing out of him, I tell you.”

Reyja laughed. “I’m afraid you won’t get much out of me, either. I don’t even have 10 silvers.”

“Well, it’s a good thing the Wardens care for their recruits then, otherwise I’d be starving.” Daveth turned back towards the fire. “Speaking of which, Duncan, when’s that roast going to be ready?”

“My apologies,” the senior Warden said with a faint smirk. “We’re waiting on Warden Alistair as well.”

Daveth groaned. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in days,” he complained, flopping to the ground again. “Come on, then, Reyja, join us and distract me from my aching belly with your story.”

“My story?” Reyja sat cross-legged next to him. “Um, Duncan recruited me in Orzammar, after I got into some… trouble there.”

“Ha! Sounds familiar. That’s how I got in, too, up in Denerim.”

“Not me,” Jory interjected, joining them. “I hail from Redcliffe, where I served as a knight under the command of Arl Eamon.”

“The king’s uncle?” she asked.

“Indeed. Do you know him?”

“No, I’ve just heard his name. We passed Redcliffe on our way here,” said Reyja. “What made you join?”

Jory shifted. “I fought for it,” he said. “Is it not thrilling to be given the chance to join the Wardens?”

“Yeah, after this whole ‘secret ritual,’ right, Duncan?” Daveth laughed, calling over his shoulder at their leader. But Duncan had disappeared into the darkness outside their camp, leaving them alone.

Reyja cocked her head. “Ritual? Duncan never mentioned that.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s a _secret_ ,” said Daveth, rolling his eyes. “Personally, I think they cooked it up just for our benefit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d never heard of such a ritual either,” Jory muttered. “I had no idea there would be more tests after getting recruited.”

“I bet they’re going to send us into the Wilds.” Daveth leaned back on his elbows. “If they do anything. We’re right on the northern edge of them here, miles and miles of savage country no one’s ever seen.”

“Why would they send us into the forest?” Reyja furrowed her brows, half-wishing Duncan would return to set her mind at ease.

“Maybe we’ll hunt us a souvenir or two, I don’t know.” Daveth shrugged. “I grew up on tales about the Korcari Wilds myself, even been in there a few times. Makes my nose twitch, though. Scary place. We don’t really have a choice, though, do we?”

“They’re forcing you to be here?”

“I got nowhere else to go,” he said with a half-smile. “Sounds like you’re in the same boat, eh?”

“Yeah. But I’m better off here than back home.”

Jory tossed a twig into the fire. “We’re all lucky to be here, and I—”

Duncan’s return silenced any further conversation. “Has Alistair still not arrived?” he asked, glancing around the camp.

“No one’s come by,” Daveth said. “You sure we can’t eat without him?”

The senior Warden chuckled. “I fear Alistair would never forgive us if he missed supper.” He surveyed the three recruits. “Reyja, as you spent the day exploring the camp, would you perhaps go looking for him?”

She got to her feet. “Uh, yeah, sure. Any idea where he is?”

“He went up towards the mage camp,” said Jory. “I saw him walking that direction, anyway.”

“And, er, what does he look like?”

“Tall, blond, young,” Daveth supplied. “You’ll probably hear him before you see him. Don’t be long, though, or I’ll eat for the both of you.”

Reyja nodded and set off into the twilight, nervous but determined. She wended around columns, skirting flocks of soldiers around their fires, none of whom resembled even the vague description Daveth had given. A guardsman she passed asked if she needed help getting around, and she nearly waved him off before she remembered to ask if he knew anything about the Grey Warden Alistair. He pointed her north, past the mage encampment and up a wide ramp into an enclosed practice space for mage apprentices, where a pair of men stood arguing. She approached cautiously, noting that the younger of the two was indeed tall and blond.

“I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage,” the man said courteously, though a mischievous smile played on his lips. “She desires your presence.”

The other, clad in mage’s robes, scowled at him. “What that woman ‘desires’ is secondary to the king’s commands.”

“Oh, huh, last I checked the Circle was still under the control of the Chantry. Should I have asked Her Reverence to write a note exempting you?”

“I will not be harassed by you, boy, templar or no,” the robed man spat.

“Yes, of course. I was harassing you by delivering a message,” said Alistair cheekily. “How rude of me, the _former_ templar. I’ll take all your magic away if you snap at me again, you know.”

“Your glibness does you no credit.”

Alistair folded his arms and shifted back to stare incredulously at the mage. “Here I thought we were getting along so well! I was even going to name one of my children after you.”

“Oh, get out of my way, fool,” hissed the mage, pushing past him. “I’ll speak to the woman if I must.”

Alistair turned with the mage’s departure, catching sight of Reyja, who waited awkwardly for the heated exchange to end. “You know,” he said as he sauntered up to her. “One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together. It’s like a party! We should all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about.” He laughed, then tilted his head in confusion. “Wait, we haven’t met, have we?”

“Uh, no, not yet.”

“Hmm. I feel like I know you somehow…” Alistair peered at her in the dusky light. “Oh, I do know who you are! You’re Duncan’s newest recruit, from Orzammar!”

“Yeah, how did you—?”

“Duncan sent word,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you right away. I’m Alistair, by the way, although I guess you knew that.”

“I’m Reyja. Duncan actually sent me to look for you.”

“Right, that was the name. What have I done now?”

Reyja raised an eyebrow. “Um, nothing, I don’t think. He’s just holding dinner until you get back.”

“Ah, that man knows me too well. Well, let’s head back to him, then, if that’s the case.” Alistair led the way out of the clearing towards Duncan’s fire. “So,” he said as they descended the ramp, “There haven’t been any dwarven Grey Wardens in some time. You must know a lot about darkspawn.”

“No one in Orzammar would have trusted someone like me with any information that important. Hunting darkspawn is noble work,” Reyja replied, walking quickly to keep up with Alistair’s longer strides. “I’ve never even seen one.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Someone like you? The recruit Duncan’s been bragging about endlessly? Yes, completely untrustworthy. But I wouldn’t worry, you’ll be seeing plenty of darkspawn now, and probably sooner than you’d like.”

“He’s really been bragging about me?”

“He spoke quite highly of you in his reports. You’ve impressed him a lot.”

She blushed, glad of the darkness hiding it. “I didn’t know that.”

“Surely he’s told you? Duncan’s good at that, making his recruits feel welcome. He did for me, anyway.”

“He’s definitely made me feel welcome,” Reyja said. “How long have you been a Warden?”

“Only about six months. In fact, as the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”

“The Joining? Is that the ritual Daveth was talking about?”

He laughed. “Oh, probably. I promise it’s not as bad as whatever monumental task he suggested. No dragon-slaying, anyway, but I can’t say it’s a pleasant experience.”

Reyja found herself smiling, Alistair’s attitude infectious. “Well, whatever it is, it’ll be nice to have you along,” she said.

“It will?” Alistair stopped just outside the ring of firelight around the Grey Warden camp, eyeing her almost suspiciously. “Huh. That’s a switch. But wait, smell that? Lamb, my favorite! That’s one thing you’ll definitely notice when you’re a Warden: massive increase in appetite. Let’s go!”

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Alistair pulled her into the camp, greeting Duncan and the other recruits with a bright enthusiasm that made the surrounding evening seem less dark in comparison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Duncan's Captain America: The Winter Soldier reference and bonus points to you if you caught it!


	6. The Korcari Wilds

The next day dawned cool and clear. Reyja squinted against the brightness of the sun as she pushed out of her small canvas tent into the morning. Jory and Alistair were already up and about, preparing a thick porridge, but Duncan was nowhere to be seen and snores still rolled out of Daveth’s tent, as they had all night. Reyja pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. _That would take some getting used to._ She hadn’t slept well, kept awake by the general murmur of the camp as much as the thunderous reminders of Daveth’s presence.

Alistair smiled at her and rolled his eyes as she came up to the fire. He gestured at Daveth’s tent with his head. “Sorry about him,” he said. “You know, I spent most of my teen years in a templar dormitory with loads of other boys, but before I met him I had no idea anyone could make a sound like that. The man snores like a mabari!” He cocked his head, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe we should see if there’s any extra room in the kennels, actually.”

Reyja laughed.

“He might even keep them awake,” Jory grumbled as he gave the porridge another stir. “I would pity the poor creatures.”

“Oh, they’d be fine. The ones here would be too tired after chasing darkspawn all day to complain anyway.”

“Are there really darkspawn so close to the camp?” Reyja asked, settling down beside the crackling flames.

Alistair shrugged. “Sometimes. But the scouts roam pretty far into the Wilds to make sure they don’t get too near us. Did you see any scary men covered in kaddis when you first got here, who glared at you the entire time you were walking past?”

“Kaddis?”

“It’s like paint, or dye, but on skin. And their mabari were bigger than everyone else’s?”

“Oh, yeah, I think we passed a few groups of them.”

“Those were Ash Warriors,” Alistair said, leaning back on his elbows. “I don’t know how Cailan got them to join up, but they’re the best scouts I’ve ever seen. They have tricks for countering darkspawn even the Wardens aren’t familiar with.” He shook his head in amazement. “And I’d love to get my hands on one of their dogs. Do they have mabari in Orzammar?”

“No, I’d never seen one before I left. They’re…” Reyja hesitated. Duncan had explained Fereldans’ fascination with dogs the first time they’d crossed paths with some on the road between Gherlen’s Pass and Redcliffe, after seeing a pair of the massive creatures bring down an elk with their master. She’d felt a thrill of fear tighten in her belly at the sound of the hounds’ victorious howl. “They’re big,” she finished lamely.

Alistair opened his mouth, closed it again, and exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Jory. “Uh, yes. They are big,” he said cautiously, reaching for the bowl of porridge Jory extended to him and passing it to Reyja. “Even to, er, human-sized people?” He winced. “Sorry, that sounded, um. I don’t really know how to say…”

“That I’m short compared to you?” She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but there was no use tiptoeing around it and Alistair was surprisingly easy to talk to, relaxed and quick with a joke. In the light of the morning, Reyja couldn’t feel the familiar clawhold of tension between her shoulder blades, even surrounded as she was by strangers. She smiled to take the edge off her words.

“A lot of people are short compared to me,” Alistair mumbled, flushing bright red. “I’m tall.”

She blinked at him as his comment settled into an uncomfortable silence. “Yeah. Listen, I’m—” Reyja paused and sucked in a breath, already feeling a matching blush creep across her own cheeks. She tried to ignore it. “We’re going to be working together for awhile, right? And I’m really good at making things awkward. But I don’t want to start off like that, not if I don’t have to. You guys will get your fill of it anyway, I’m sure.”

“Well, you’ll have to fight me for the title,” said Alistair, grateful to leave the lull behind. “I’m the current Champion of Awkwardness around here. In fact, you’ll like this story. One time, I…”

Reyja listened with horrified fascination as he spun a grand tale of bad directions, mistaken identities, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time made all the worse by his misjudged attempts at humor. Every new player in the game had their own unique voice, happily supplied by Alistair despite the porridge he shoveled into his mouth between breaths. Even dour Jory was laughing by the time Duncan returned, though the stormclouds behind the senior Warden’s eyes silenced the mirth around the fire.

“We will be busy today,” he said by way of greeting. “I hope you’ve all eaten well?” He surveyed the cooking pot and their bowls, scraped clean, before his brows furrowed unhappily. “Where is Daveth?”

“Still asleep,” Alistair answered as he scrambled to his feet.

Duncan lifted his chin and frowned. “That does not bode well.”

“Should I… wake him up?”

“No. I will do it myself.”

“Er, right,” Alistair said, shifting uneasily.

“You will be taking Reyja to get fitted for her armor, Alistair.”

Reyja startled at the sound of her name, glancing between the two men as she rose as well. The prospect of armor all her own set her mind ablaze with excitement, though the idea of being measured for it, in front of her new friend no less, stuck in her throat like gristle and expanded the more she mulled it over. She wondered how much of herself she would have to bare for the armor to fit properly, or if there would even be armor of a proper size for her on hand, and slowly trepidation began to overwhelm the initial burst of enthusiasm. Duncan sent them off with a curt nod and turned away to give Jory his own assignment for the morning, unaware of the hurdle he’d just placed in front of her.

She swallowed hard as her legs carried her after Alistair out of the campsite, towards a distant banner billowing in a column of smoke he told her marked the quartermaster’s shop. Reyja nodded at the sound of his voice without listening to him as she tried to quell the rising nerves begging her to run or kick or drop dead with each step she took closer to whatever fate awaited her under the flapping red flag. The porridge sat in her stomach, shifting and grating like shards of glass. _It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay._ Her footfalls melded into the rhythm of the words, blending them into meaningless syllables.

Too soon, Alistair halted beside her and gestured towards a balding, burly man with his face set in a scowl. “Here we are,” he said. “This is Martell, the quartermaster.”

Reyja nodded mutely, barely making eye contact.

Looking at her oddly, Alistair hesitated a moment before introducing her himself. “And this is Reyja, the newest Warden recruit. We’re here for armor?”

Martell tilted his head back and surveyed them, one eye milky white and scarred over. “Duncan didn’t say nothing about dwarves,” he said roughly, pushing away from the workbench he’d been leaning over to approach them. “Don’t know what I got that’ll fit you.”

“I’m sure you’ll have something.” Alistair spoke before Reyja could open her mouth. He smiled easily through the quartermaster’s glare. “You’re the best, after all.”

“I’m the ‘only,’” Martell grumbled, transferring his gaze back to Reyja. “You do talk, yeah?”

“I—yes?” Her voice cracked and she felt the familiar flush of embarrassment already staining her pale skin pink. “Sorry, I—”

The quartermaster grunted. “Just making sure. With Alistair around, you won’t get a word in edgewise anyway—”

“Hey!” Alistair folded his arms and gave him a hurt look.

“—but I might ask things he can’t answer.”

Reyja swallowed again. “Oh, okay. I’ll, uh, do my best.”

Martell raised the eyebrow over his good eye. “It won’t be a test,” he said bluntly as he moved away to grab his measuring tape.

She winced, squeezing her eyes shut and wishing she could be anywhere else. Alistair leaned down beside her and cleared his throat to get her attention. “Are you alright?” he asked in a quiet whisper, concern creasing his forehead.

Reyja could feel her hands shaking and clenched her fists tight around the tremors. It didn’t help. She glanced up into Alistair’s face, then down to the packed earth beneath her feet. “I told you I’d make it awkward,” she said with a humorless laugh. “Didn’t take very long.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like, uh…” Reyja sucked in a breath and let it out slowly through her nose. “People. Looking at—” She gestured vaguely at herself and folded her broad arms across her chest, as if to hide.

Alistair cocked his head. “Why?”

 _Oh, Ancestors, don’t make me say it._ The blush across her cheeks darkened, spreading down her neck and over her ears like wildfire. _Would you want to look at someone like me?_

Before she could think of a decent answer, Martell stalked back towards them, measuring tape in hand. “Right,” he said as he approached. “Mobility or protection?”

Reyja stared at him blankly, caught off-guard by the question.

“I don’t got all day for this, miss. What kind of armor d’you want?”

“Oh, uh.” She shifted from one foot to the other, trying to recall the feel of Everd’s plate snug around her shoulders. The weight of it had felt right on her body, strong and secure, a good match for her greatsword and a far cry from the flimsy leathers preferred by most of the Carta. “H-heavy armor? Protection, I guess?”

Martell grunted noncommittally. “Fine. Mail or plate?”

“Plate?”

“Don’t answer my questions with questions, yeah? You know what you want or you don’t.”

Reyja flinched. “Right, sorry. I’m just—”

Alistair interrupted her with a supportive nudge and a smile. _You’re doing great,_ he mouthed, winking.

“Sorry. I’d like plate, please.” She took a deep, steadying breath, feeling a scrap of tension evaporate from the meeting of her neck and shoulders.

Another grunt. “Stand here, arms out.” Martell pointed at the ground in front of him and the ache that had begun to float away slammed back into her muscles with full force, pulling them together and twisting tight.

But she did as she was told, shaking like the last leaf on an autumn tree branch, begging her ancestors to at least let it end quickly. If Martell noticed the nerves blazing like lightning just beneath her skin, he didn’t comment on it as he drew the measuring tape from her wrist to her collarbone, from the crook of her neck to her hip, from one shoulder across her chest to the other. Her heartbeats melded into a single, solid thrum as the quartermaster looped the tape around her forearms and her biceps and her throat before moving in to encircle her bust, ribs, waist. She flushed crimson feeling the pressure of the narrow strap against her fleshy belly. Through it all, Martell was silent, focused and professional. Reyja could only imagine the cruel jibes that must be filtering through his head, a man so used to the trim, fit bodies of trained warriors.

As he knelt to measure her thick legs, she barely restrained the urge to bury her face in her hands. Only Alistair’s presence kept her from trying to hide her humiliation so obviously, though the young Warden had wandered to the other side of the clearing and turned his back to give her what privacy he could. Reyja settled for digging her fingernails into her palms, driving crescents of pain into her skin to distract herself from the numbers she knew Martell was recording.

Suddenly, it was over. “Right,” the quartermaster muttered, standing. “Last one.” He held the tape at the crown of her head and let the other end fall to the ground. “Step on that, would you?”

Reyja took a moment to register that he was speaking to her, then anchored her heel on the measuring tape as Martell pulled it taut and leaned over to read the result.

“Tall for a dwarf, eh?”

Of all the measurements he could have commented on, she was glad he’d chosen that one. “I guess, yeah,” she said, relief warming her to the core.

Martell offered her the barest hint of a smile. “I think I have some plate that’ll work for you without too much trouble,” he said, tossing the end of the measuring tape over his shoulder. “Glad you chose it and not something else. I’ll have to let the cuisses out and the fauld might be a bit tight if you’re wearing too many layers under it, but it’ll do on short notice.”

“Oh, um, good,” Reyja said. _Half of those words mean nothing to me, but good._ “Thank you.”

“Yeah, all right. Alistair!”

The junior Warden snapped his head towards them and grinned as he jogged over. “All done?”

“Tell Duncan he owes me a sovereign and half a roast pig. Ferelden-style, none of his Orlesian nonsense.”

“He was born in Highever, you know.”

“But he was raised in Val Royeaux, wasn’t he? Don’t want no glazes or ‘orange zest’ or whatever other sticky, fruity…” Martell trailed off, scarred nose wrinkled in disgust. Reyja didn’t think he was exaggerating his distaste.

“One sovereign, half of a normal, thoroughly Ferelden roast pig. Got it. Thanks, Martell.”

The quartermaster waved off his gratitude. “I’ll be just a minute making the alterations. You can wait here, or if you got other business, it’ll be ready when you’re done.”

Alistair met Reyja’s eyes and shrugged. “We’ll wander. Back soon!”

“Yeah,” Martell said absently, attention already focused on rummaging through the piles of armor stacked behind his workbench.

Reyja swallowed the emotions bubbling at the back of her throat. “Wait, hold on, a sovereign? On me?” she gasped, half-jogging to keep up with Alistair’s strides as he led her away from Martell’s shop. “That can’t be right.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he answered easily. “The Wardens pay for everyone’s first set of armor. Most recruits don’t come with much and it doesn’t do us any good if you run in fighting darkspawn with just a cooking pot on your head and Great Grandma Mabel’s left gauntlet for luck, right?”

“But… a sovereign? A whole sovereign?”

Alistair stopped and looked down at her, perplexed. “It’s — it’s just a sovereign, Reyja. Martell gives us a good deal, sure, but even if he didn’t… it’s just a sovereign.”

 _Just a sovereign?_ It was more money than Reyja had ever seen in one place at one time. She recalled the cascade of silver coins spilling from the purse Beraht had ripped from her belt, the proceeds from selling off Oskias’s lyrium. Even that had seemed like so much, and it was next to nothing. _Just a sovereign._ She opened her mouth, but found no words that could explain what she wanted to say, not without giving away more than she cared to to this man she’d just met. “Just a sovereign,” she repeated softly. It tasted strange, prickling across the insides of her cheeks.

“Right. It’s nothing.” He was still staring at her oddly, half-concerned, half-embarrassed.

Slowly, Reyja registered that he was responding to her actions, that she was indeed acting oddly. She shook her head, clearing the memory of Beraht’s leering face, and rolled her shoulders to loosen them. “Yeah, okay,” she said, attempting nonchalance. “Sorry. I’m just… not used to people spending money on me.”

Alistair quirked a small smile at her, burying his discomfort. “Orzammar was different, huh?”

A thousand objections spilled through her head at once. _Orzammar wasn’t the problem. Dust Town wasn’t the problem. Even Beraht wasn’t the problem, I don’t think. It’s all just me._ “Yeah.”

“Well, the Wardens made me feel at home, coming from the Chantry. If they can do that, they can do anything.” His grin bloomed fully, brightly, across his face. Reyja couldn’t help but smile with him, even as he lifted his head into a sudden gust of wind and turned back to her with excitement blazing in his eyes. “Did you hear that? Mabari! I wonder if a patrol just got back. Let’s go over to the kennels and check.”

Reyja nodded and fell into step behind him as he set off again towards a distant palisade. Inside, she swore, wishing that Alistair had misheard the barks on the breeze or at least that they would be sent off as loiterers, forbidden to linger around the dangerous dogs. But Alistair hailed the kennel master by name as they approached and received a hearty greeting in return, and Reyja’s hopes faded.

“Ho, Alistair, I’ve been hoping you’d stop by,” the man said, leaning across the fence to wave them over.

“You could’ve come and found me, Illian,” Alistair responded with a lopsided grin. “I always have time for the hounds, you know that.”

Illian grimaced and Alistair’s amusement fell away. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time to spare. That last skirmish took a nasty toll.”

Reyja peered between the palisade poles and caught sight of a dog’s smooth gray flank, spattered with dried blood and shuddering as the animal struggled to breathe. She bit her lip and drew back, brow furrowed.

“Can you see him in there?” Illian asked her, glancing over his shoulder. “Poor boy. Swallowed darkspawn blood trying to save his master. He’s strong enough to fight it, like all mabari are, but not for much longer.”

“Fight what?” Reyja asked hesitantly.

“The taint. I have medicine that might help him, but he’s in so much pain he snaps if I get too close. I can’t risk being bitten, not with all the other dogs depending on me, but now that you’re here, Alistair…”

“Now that I’m here?”

Illian pushed himself off the fence and made his way along it towards the gate, beckoning them to follow. “Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met?” he said, giving Reyja another look as they walked.

“Oh, no, we haven’t. I’m Reyja.”

“She’s a Warden too,” Alistair said proudly. “Almost, anyway.”

“That’s perfect! The more of you, the better.” Illian clapped his hands together and meshed his long fingers. “Do you think you two could get close enough to muzzle him? He can’t really do much damage as he is, but I don’t know if it’s gotten into him far enough to spread to me. It won’t matter to you, though, will it?”

Alistair nodded as Reyja glanced between them, alarmed. “Wait, what won't matter? What are you talking about?”

“Have you not told her?”

“Oh, I guess not. We’ll be fine, Reyja. Wardens are immune to the darkspawn taint.”

“What? How?”

“Well—” Alistair faltered, shifting his weight. “We just are. One of the perks, I suppose. I promise, that poor dog can’t hurt us.” His eyes trailed over the limp body of the mabari on the other side of the fence, its legs twitching pitifully.

“But you can help him,” Illian interjected. “Please.”

“It won’t take long, I’m sure, then we can grab your armor and get back to Duncan.”

Reyja frowned and returned her gaze to the dog. Even through the palisade, its pain was obvious and despite her fear of the creature, her heart ached for it. “Let’s do what we can,” she said, setting her jaw.

Illian let out his breath in a grateful sigh. “Oh, thank you. It would be such a shame to lose him. He’s a good dog, one of the most promising members of the breed we have here. Come in, come in.” He unlatched the gate and pulled it open, ushering the pair of Wardens inside. Reyja kept her back to the fence, still wary of the hound’s prone form even as it let out a quiet whimper of distress. The kennel master urged her forward nevertheless, his dark eyes wide and watchful. “Go on, let him smell you. Mabari can be difficult, it's true, but we’ll know right away if he’ll let you get close enough.”

Alistair took the lead, crouching low and holding his hand out in front of him. The dog’s small, pointed ears perked up at the sound his boots made crunching through the soft hay, and fierce, intelligent eyes dulled by pain opened slowly, slivers of brown in a wide gray face. The mabari growled once, weak and halfhearted, and its eyes drooped shut again. Alistair gave a twisted smile and patted its head, then gestured for Reyja to join him.

She walked stiltedly to his side, gaze fixed on the hound. As she neared, she could smell the sickness radiating from its body, a greasy, deathly odor that clung to her clothes and set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. _Poor guy._ The dog whined and tried to lift its head, the tips of its solid fangs barely emerging from beneath the snarl of its upper lip, before its strength gave out once more and it collapsed. _Oh, Ancestors, poor guy!_ “What should we do?” she asked softly, kneeling down beside Alistair.

“You said you wanted him muzzled, Illian?” Alistair said over his shoulder. “I think he’ll let us do it. He’d probably let you do it, honestly. I don’t know how much fight he has left in him.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Illian replied darkly, handing over the muzzle. “But I still don’t want to risk the exposure, so you go ahead.” He paused, arms folded over his chest as he surveyed the mabari’s labored breathing. “He trusts you.”

Reyja placed her hands on the dog’s neck, holding it steady as Alistair lifted its head, slid the muzzle over its nose and pulled it into position. He stroked the mabari’s ears tenderly as he adjusted straps and buckles. The dog’s eyelids flickered and it gave a plaintive whimper of loss when he stood up. Reyja rose as well, throat tight, and retreated to Illian’s side.

“Well done,” the kennel master said, giving Alistair a friendly pat on the back and her a nod. “Now I can at least try to treat him properly. The medicine I have is good, but I know there’s a flower that grows in the swamps around here that would help even more, if I could get my hands on it.”

“In the swamps? Out in the Wilds?” Alistair asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yes. Have you seen it? It’s very distinctive, white with a red center.”

“No, but we might just be heading out there later today, in fact.” He shot a glance at Reyja, his eyes unreadable.

She met his gaze apprehensively, but leapt to respond. “We’ll keep a lookout for it, if you like.”

“That would be fantastic,” Illian said, visibly relaxing. “I could help so many mabari with that herb, our friend there in particular. I don’t know what else can save him now, to be honest. Poor fellow.”

“Then we’ll definitely find some,” said Alistair with a sharp nod. Reyja followed suit, restraining herself from looking over her shoulder again at the mabari’s pale body on the other side of the fence.

“Thank you both. You make fine Wardens, whatever Loghain may say about King Cailan’s faith in your order.” Illian flashed a grateful smile before turning his head towards the outer gate, distracted by distant strains of shouts and howling. “Mm, another patrol’s coming in. May they have had both the Maker’s protection and Mythal’s… I don’t know if I can take another case like this one today.” A deep sigh raised the kennel master’s narrow shoulders as he turned away. “Thank you again, Alistair. And you, Reyja. Please let me know if you find that herb. I could use as much as you can gather.”

Reyja’s hand was half-raised to wave goodbye before she realized Illian was already gone, melted into the mid-morning shadows of the palisade. “Where—?”

“He does that,” Alistair said with a chuckle. “Not big on goodbyes, Illian. Maybe it’s the Dalish in him, I don’t know.”

“Dalish?”

“Elves. Forest-y elves. I guess you wouldn’t be familiar with them, would you?”

“One of the Wardens I met with Duncan on the way here was an elf. Gideon, I think his name was?” Reyja said, frowning as she tried to remember.

“Gideon’s from Tevinter, though. He’s not Dalish.” Alistair cast a glance at the sun and rolled his shoulders, stretching. “I think your armor’s probably done now. Martell works fast, when he has the time. Should we go back?”

“Sure. That’s what Duncan said to do, so…”

“Yeah, you’re right. He’ll just put us to work again, but you’re right.”

Reyja blinked up at him. “Isn’t that kind of the point?”

“Well, yes. But he wasn’t in the best of moods this morning and I’d rather not end up mucking out latrines because I tripped over something. Again.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t that kind of leader,” she said, a shiver running down her spine as an image of Beraht flashed behind her eyes.

“He’s not. Usually. I just… well…” Alistair stared hard at the rows of tents on either side of the path as they started towards Martell’s shop. “I’ve experienced that kind of leadership before, when I was training to be a templar,” he said softly. “Let me tell you, it’s not fun.”

“You could say that again.” A small scowl dug its way into Reyja’s forehead as Beraht’s leering face returned and attempted to anchor itself in her mind again.

Alistair turned to her, a questioning eyebrow raised.

“I’m away from him now and I’m glad. Like you, I’m sure,” she said. She took a steadying breath and let it out slowly, forcing the memories of the Carta boss away.

“Right.” They walked on quietly for a moment before Alistair spoke again, hesitantly. “Duncan didn’t really say how, or what, he saved you from…?”

Reyja swallowed. “A series of mistakes that could have cost me my life, if he hadn’t intervened. It’s not really that great of a story, I don’t think. I’m sure you’ve heard better from other recruits.”

He didn’t push her for details. “He’s a good man, Duncan. I owe him a lot.”

“You and me both.”

Their boots crunched gravel, the small stones grating together to fill the silence.

“So,” said Reyja, clearing her throat when the lull became too uncomfortable. “What are ‘templars?’ You’ve said that several times but I’ve never heard of them before.”

“Never heard of templars? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have. There’s no Chantry in Orzammar, and no apostates to hunt down among the dwarves. Well, templars are basically fancy guards with special training that makes them especially dangerous to mages. That’s what I was going to be, until Duncan recruited me.”

“You were going to be a guard?” She lifted her chin, eyeing him carefully.

He laughed nervously. “Technically? That’s probably the closest comparison I can give you, but templars are really a lot more than that. It’s a religious calling, to some, and the things they were teaching us…” Alistair paused and dropped his voice, looking over his shoulder like he was about to tell a secret. “Templars are the reason the Chantry has so much power, you know.”

“Okay?”

“Oh, erm. Sorry. Even though I’m not in the order anymore, I’m not supposed to share anything about it. The Revered Mother, she’s the leader of the Chantry, would have my head if she ever found out. They don’t usually let people get away from them, once they’re in. I’m a bit unusual.”

 _Yeah, I noticed._ “That makes sense,” Reyja said, shifting her weight as Alistair resumed their path back to Martell.

“Do you think so? I always thought it was odd, to be sent off with a gag down my throat ‘just in case.’ I wasn't even a full templar yet. What am I going to do, really? Raise an army to rival the Chantry’s? Me?”

A Chantry missionary had come to Dust Town once, when Reyja was young. Kalah had dragged her and Rica to the preacher's meeting one night, if only for the meal the man promised to provide. The food was bland but filling and far better than the alternative of nothing, and Reyja had remembered the evening clearly enough to retain the basic tenets of Chantry faith, though she couldn't help but wonder what the Ancestors would think of it all. “Well, you never know, I guess,” she said to Alistair.

He scoffed. “I've tried very hard to make sure I stay out of trouble, for more reasons than one.” His eyes gleamed with hidden meaning. “I'm not about to break that pattern now.”

“If you say so.”

The other Warden laughed again. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

Reyja risked a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, unsure of the new path the conversation was taking. “Should I not?” she asked cautiously.

“Don’t I look like just the kind of rowdy, dangerous sort who would lead a coup that could bring entire nations to their knees?” Alistair raised his fists and jabbed at invisible enemies along the side of the trail and Reyja relaxed into her stride. _Ancestors, he was just joking. Not everyone’s out to get me here, remember?_

 _He has terrible form, though_ , she noted, observing her companion’s attempt at a left hook. “I think your Chantry was right to be worried, with punches like that.”

“And these aren’t even my best moves!” He jogged up to the crest of the low rise in front of them and struck a dramatic pose beneath the shadow of a towering pine tree. An older woman with bright blue eyes and a tight bun walking in the opposite direction smiled briefly at his antics as she passed, her mage’s staff humming gently with power. Reyja’s heart lurched as she followed him up the hill, memories of Leske dragging at her mind. It felt like a lifetime ago that he’d met her outside her home in Dust Town and done almost the exact same thing, though barely a month had gone by. _I hope he’s okay…_

Alistair was saved from the potential embarrassment of his best moves, and Reyja from further reminiscing, by Martell’s harsh shout of greeting as he caught sight of them through the smoke of the forge now fuming in the clearing of his shop. He waved them over, his scarred face relaxed into a small smile, and presented the results of his work. Reyja's jaw dropped at the sight of the smooth metal gleaming in the pale autumn sunlight when the quartermaster moved aside and swept his arm over the breastplate and greaves, the gauntlets and pauldrons, the vambraces and boots, all polished and waiting for her. Her excitement buried even the clench of discomfort in her throat as Martell and Alistair helped her into the armor, snapping clasps closed and cinching buckles. It wasn’t the most comfortable outfit she’d ever found herself in, but it felt right. Reyja beamed at the men, thanked them both, and ran her fingers down the iron plates over and over as Alistair led the way back to the Wardens’ campsite, lost in the texture of the metal that was, somehow, all hers.

Duncan, Jory, and Daveth, the latter still disheveled from his late start to the day, were already waiting around the banked ashes of the campfire. The senior Warden paced the clearing, hands clasped behind the small of his back and brow still furrowed in concern that hadn’t dissipated all through the morning. When he saw them approaching, he paused and scanned Reyja with eyes like a hawk’s, taking in her new attire. She quailed under his gaze, her nerves resurfacing, but the inspection was over as quickly as it began. Duncan nodded his approval of the armor and cracked a smile before transferring his attention to Alistair. “You were successful?”

“At the cost of a sovereign and half of a completely Ferelden roast pig,” Alistair reported with a lopsided grin.

Duncan’s lifted eyebrow was his only reaction.

“Martell made me say it that way. He doesn’t want any Orlesian influence, because he seems to have forgotten that you’re from Highever.”

“I see. Perhaps I will pay him a visit and remind him myself,” said Duncan, his smile expanding into a chuckle. “But now that you’re here, we have other business to attend to first.”

He invited them into the campsite with a sweep of his arm. Daveth and Jory were wearing armor as well, Reyja noted, and Alistair peeled away from her and disappeared into his tent to grab his own as soon as they entered. Duncan surveyed his assembled recruits and nodded again, almost to himself, as if a decision had been made. “There is an important task that you must undertake today,” he began. “It is a task that all Grey Wardens before you have attempted and that all future Grey Wardens must also complete. For most of you, if not all, it may be the first time you have faced such foes.” He paused and stared at each of them in turn. “But with luck, it will not be the last.”

A shiver ran down Reyja’s spine, trapped beneath the press of her armor.

“The three of you, under the guidance of Warden Alistair, will be venturing into the Korcari Wilds.”

“I knew it!” Daveth interrupted in a carrying whisper. Jory shushed him.

Duncan’s dark eyes flashed over Daveth before he continued. “Each of you will collect a vial of fresh darkspawn blood, to be used in a ritual known as the Joining upon your return.”

“Ser Duncan,” Jory said hesitantly. “Is it not dangerous to go into the Wilds?”

“You were not recruited out of charity, Jory. None of you were. All of the recruits I see before me have proven themselves to be resourceful and skilled enough to accomplish this…” He trailed off, eyes growing hard for a moment before clearing. “And another task as well.”

Alistair startled, looking up from the tree stump on which he’d sat to fasten his boots. “Another task? What other task?”

Duncan turned to him, regarding him carefully. “There was once a Grey Warden archive in this area, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls, treaties promising support that may prove useful in the days to come, were left behind, magically sealed. Your prior training, Alistair, makes you uniquely suited to handle this, and I would like you to retrieve these treaties if you can.”

The young Warden swallowed hard. “What if they’re not there anymore?”

“It is possible that they may have been removed or even destroyed, though the seal’s magic should have held. Only another Warden can break such protections.”

“If so much effort went into guarding these scrolls, why leave them in a ruin?” Alistair asked, still perplexed.

Duncan sighed. “It was assumed our absence would be a short one. A great many things were assumed that have not held true.”

A pained silence fell over the small circle of tents, lingering for several laden heartbeats before Alistair broke it with a nod. “Right, well… I’ll find them, Duncan. But—” He hesitated, a frown drawing a crease between his eyebrows before he pushed on. “This is more than a Joining party, isn’t it? Don’t you think it would be safer if you led it?”

“I am needed here,” Duncan said, glancing over the waving pennants of the camp towards King Cailan’s tent. “His Majesty has requested my advice for the coming battle, and I fear we have little time to spare before plans must be put into action.”

“Oh.” Alistair’s face fell, and suddenly Reyja wondered how old he really was. She remembered Daveth describing him as ‘young’ the night before, when she had gone to fetch him for dinner, but he hadn’t truly looked it until this moment.

“All will be well, Alistair.” Duncan smiled kindly. “I have every confidence you are up to the tasks at hand. That goes for all of you. Return quickly and safely, and may the Maker watch over your path.”

\----------

What trees there were in the Wilds stooped like old men, peering suspiciously through their own branches at the group of Wardens that passed beneath them. Reyja couldn’t keep her eyes still, startling at every sound. Flocks of birds burst from bushes into the clouded sky and melted into the mist that crept in as soon as the army camp disappeared behind them, and she felt the attention of creatures she had no names for track her progress through trailing strands of witch’s hair moss and the tendrils of weeping willows.

Alistair led them confidently for nearly an hour before the trail beneath their feet petered out into swampland, prickled by cattails and reeds. Reyja could see the concern in his eyes as he gestured with his head towards a steep rise, pointing out a camouflaged platform in the shadow of a spreading oak. Daveth crested the hill first, his hand clenched around the hilt of his dagger, and waved the rest of them up.

As soon as they reached the watchpoint, Reyja panting under the weight of her armor, Alistair stiffened and snapped his head to the south. “Get down,” he hissed, dropping to a crouch. The others followed suit, weapons scraping quietly as they were unsheathed. Reyja reached over her shoulder to loosen her greatsword, the force of her heartbeat making her arms shake.

“What is it?” Daveth breathed. “What’d I miss?”

Alistair narrowed his eyes and shifted minutely, pointing through a gap in the bushes. Following the path of his gaze, Reyja’s mouth fell open in disgust. The thing in the clearing had its back to them, its skin a speckled, sickly green covered in patchy leather and chainmail that it had clearly scavenged from one of King Cailan’s scouts. Behind it milled others of its kind, grunting at each other and fighting over the last scraps of a wolf carcass. Crude bows still notched with jagged arrows hung from the ill-formed hands of a pair of taller creatures on the outskirts of the group. Reyja felt the bile in her stomach rise as one of the foul beasts took another by the throat and threw it aside to shovel a handful of the wolf’s intestines into its wide, lipless mouth. She didn’t need Alistair to tell her what they were.

“Darkspawn,” he whispered. “The smaller ones are genlocks. The ones with the bows, hurlocks. Thank the Maker there’s no shrieks. Or ogres.” Alistair shuddered.

“How did you know they were here?” asked Jory, his voice small.

“All Wardens can sense them, after you complete the Joining.”

Reyja wrinkled her nose. “At least we’ll know where to stay away from, then,” she said.

Alistair chuckled under his breath. “Not quite. We have to kill them, remember?”

“Ugh.”

“I’m with Reyja.” Daveth nodded enthusiastically, casting another glance through the leaves at the rabble of darkspawn. “Ugh.”

Jory looked between them, then back at Alistair. “This is not a subject to be made light of,” he said, high and strained. “I’m no coward, but this is foolhardy and reckless.” He gestured wildly, but Alistair caught his wrist before he could rustle the bushes and alert the creatures nearby. “Those are m-monsters! How many can the four of us kill, truly? A dozen? A hundred? There’s an army of those things in this forest!”

“Keep your voice down!” Alistair released Jory’s arm. “Like Duncan said, we’re not completely incapable. Darkspawn can be beaten, and all of you are more than a match for what we’ll find out here.” He glanced at each of them in turn. “I can promise we’re in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde, but this isn’t going to be easy, necessarily. It wouldn’t be a test otherwise, would it?”

Daveth grinned. “You’re good at tests, _Ser_ Jory, eh? You wouldn’t have become a knight otherwise.”

“I… suppose.”

Reyja swallowed. “All of this is part of the test, Jory,” she said. “The doubt, too. It’s only there to make you stronger.”

The three men turned to gaze at her, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t spoken. But Alistair nodded in agreement and Jory’s shoulders lowered inch by inch as some of his tension loosened, and she let out a silent sigh of relief.

“Right, well. Shall we?” Alistair hefted his shield. The others murmured assent and made ready. Reyja pulled her greatsword fully from its sheath and took a deep breath as she stood, steeling herself for the fight.

It was short and bloody. The darkspawn were unprepared, bloated from their meal and slow but still vicious. A hurlock’s arrow whistled dangerously close to Reyja’s ear before bouncing harmlessly off Alistair’s shield. Jory killed first, striking a genlock across the throat with his fine Redcliffe longsword and severing its head from its body with a single smooth cut, sending it arcing over the clearing, spattering gooey black blood. One droplet struck Reyja’s cheek, sizzling against her skin, making her hiss in pain. It drove her into the battle with renewed fury and she slaughtered a creature of her own, slicing through its weak armor into its ribcage. Daveth made quick work of the hurlocks, weaving around them, peppering them with wounds from his flashing knives. He stabbed one in the back and vaulted over its shoulders as it collapsed, straight into the other one’s chest, tackling it to the ground. Reyja could hear its angry, gurgling scream over the noise of the battlefield as Daveth plunged his dagger into its eye.

They let the last of the darkspawn flee, wounded. Alistair watched them retreat deeper into the Wilds before turning back to his charges and fumbling at a pouch on his belt for a series of glass vials. He tossed one to each of them and nudged a genlock corpse with his foot, causing a fresh surge of blood to ooze from the death blow to its chest. “You’ll want to get the blood while it’s fresh,” he said. “It gets too sticky if you wait.”

Reyja pressed the mouth of the vial to the wound she’d made in the last genlock she killed and felt the burn of its blood crawl over her skin even through the metal of her gauntlet. She stared at the rising line of black in distaste until it hit the top of the glass tube and she pulled it away. Wordlessly, Alistair handed her a cork and she stoppered the flask. “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked, rolling it uneasily in her hand.

Alistair shrugged. “Just don’t drop it. Normally we go straight back, but we still have those treaties to find.”

“Right.” She looked at her belt. “Can we, um, rinse them off first?”

“There’s a stream over there. Well, water of some kind, anyway.”

Reyja stepped gingerly over the fallen darkspawn to the stagnant pool and plunged the vial into it, scrubbing it and her gauntlet clean of the foul blood. Daveth and Jory joined her, and soon all three were marveling at the clouds of inky blackness that rippled out from their hands into the water, refusing to dissipate. She tucked the blood into the leather bag that had once held Olinda’s silver coins, a wry smile twisting her lips at the turning wheels of fate.

Alistair urged them on, deeper into the Wilds, and the afternoon shadows began to lengthen. No further darkspawn dared approached, though the trees grew thicker and paths harder to find. After several hours, a massive white column, fallen onto its side and half-submerged in murky water, melted through the dark green of the marsh and alerted them to the old outpost they’d been searching for.

The swooping arches, crumbled and collapsing, almost reminded Reyja of the outskirts of Orzammar, though the stones were of no color she’d seen underground before. Alistair kept the group tightly together as they walked down the corridor into the ruin proper, shifting his gaze back and forth across the open space between the dilapidated walls as if he expected an ambush. None came. He waited tensely for several moments, silence building until it was nearly palpable, until he let out his breath in a rush, shrugged, and signaled to the others to begin searching for the scrolls.

Reyja cast her gaze around the clearing and settled on a scattered pile of stones, fallen from a towering wall overhead. She made her way towards it, flipping over old branches and smaller stones with the tip of her sword as she passed but finding no sign of any cache left behind by long-ago Wardens. The stones were lighter than she’d expected, though she moved only a few before a flash of brown caught her eye among the white. _Wood_. But it was crushed, broken, undeniably a chest but empty. Her heart sank.

“Hey, Alistair, I think I—”

A new voice, sultry and smooth like the wind through pine trees, cut her off. “What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

Reyja pivoted on her heel with her sword already raised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It liiiiiiiives! Six months later!


End file.
